The Blind Beggar reworked A W3 Tale by kierysrielle
by Kierysrielle
Summary: Jim West goes after the murderers who beat Artie nearly to death, and discovers new and old enemies involved in what will be known as the Courier Conspiracy. Trouble ensues.


[ORIGINAL]

THE NIGHT OF

THE BLIND BEGGAR

BY

RONNI CAITLIN GABRIELLE SACKSTEDER

AUTHORS NOTES:

THIS WORK OF FICTION WAS FIRST WRITTEN AND PUBLISHED IN A PRINT FANZINE CALLED PALADIN, IN 1980.

SINCE THAT TIME I HAVE WRITTEN A

LOT MORE FANFICTION AND ORIGINAL FICTION; AND I HAVE BEEN TOLD A NUMBER OF TIMES THAT READERS GREATLY ENJOYED BLIND BEGGAR AS THEY FIRST READ IT.

LAST YEAR I WAS LUCKY ENOUGH TO FIND A COPY OF PALADIN FOR SALE INCLUDING THE INCREDIBLE ARTWORK ORIGINALLY DONE BY A HUGELY TALENTED ARTIST NAMED SIGNE LANDON.

PALADIN WAS THE PRODUCTION OF THE CLARION WRITERS WORKSHOP ORIGINALLY HELD AT THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN WHICH GATHERED WORKS FROM A MARVELOUS ARRAY OF WRITERS AND ARTISTS AND FROM THAT ARRAY SOMEHOW CHOSE BLIND BEGGAR AS ONE OF THE STORIES TO PUBLISH.

TO THIS DAY I FEEL THE ARTWORK MUST BE WHAT SOLD THEM.

IF I COULD SCAN THE ART INTO THIS DOCUMENT, I WOULD BE DELIGHTED TO HAVE YOU SEE IT EITHER AGAIN OR FOR THE FIRST TIME. IT'S MORE THAN WORTH THE PRICE OF ADMISSION.

ASIDE FROM BEING PRESENTED ONLINE AT AND

WONDERFUL WORLD OF MAKEBELIEVE THIS STORY HAS ALSO BEEN PUBLISHED IN A PRINT FANZINE CALLED

"SPIES IN THE OLD WEST," FROM LIVEOAK PRESS. THIS IS ANOTHER FUN COLLECTION OF STORIES FROM A NUMBER OF SOURCES.

SO, WHY DID I WRITE TNOT BLIND BEGGAR TO BEGIN WITH? I WAS WATCHING W3 RERUNS ON TNT THE YEAR BEFORE, AND IT HAD BEEN... LETS JUST SAY SOME TIME SINCE I WATCHED THE SERIES. WATCHING, I WAS ENAMORED ONCE AGAIN OF ALL THE WILD STORIES, ALL THE WAY-WAY-PRE-STEAMPUNK GADGETS, AND THE MAGICKAL CHEMISTRY BETWEEN ROBERT CONRAD AND ROSS MARTIN AS JIM WEST AND ARTEMUS GORDON.

AND, LIKE ALL GOOD WRITERS, I HAD A QUESTION: WHY WAS THE UNFLAPPABLE JAMES T. WEST SO VERY 'UNFLAPPABLE'?

SURE, PRAGMATICALLY THE REASON WAS THAT THE CHARACTER WAS BASED ON THE UNFLAPPABLE JAMES BOND, AND THE CHARACTER WAS WRITTEN TO BE A STALWART, LOYAL, UNFLAPPABLE, INCREDIBLY COURAGEOUS HERO.

BUT:

I WANTED TO KNOW MORE. AND AS IT WASN'T PROVIDED IN A 4-YEAR SERIES OF HOUR EPISODES, I KNEW AS A WRITER I WOULD HAVE TO DISCOVER/INVENT IT MYSELF. AND SO, I DID, AND BETTER THAN JUST FINDING IT, I SHARED IT AND IT WAS WIDELY ACCEPTED, EVEN IF IT WAS AND IS absolutely not Wild, Wild West 'canon' much less 'fanon'.

The gentle reader will find that in BLIND BEGGAR and a revised, improved sequel, the younger hero's name is James Kiernan Torrance West, not James Torrance West, not James Templeton West, that's one fairly superficial difference. Another, more significant difference in this story and a great many other works of fanfiction is that it takes place over nearly four years' time, and so cannot comfortably be squeezed into the first term of Ulysses Grant's presidency.

SO WHY AM I RE-PRESENTING BLIND BEGGAR NOW?

BECAUSE I THINK WITH A FEW TWEAKS TO THE GRAMMAR AND SPELLING I BELIEVE THIS LITTLE STORY STANDS UP A LOT BETTER THAN SOME OTHER EFFORTS OF MINE DONE IN THE MEANTIME. ALSO BECAUSE THIS LITTLE STORY OF MINE WAS ONE OF THE FIRST WILD, WILD WEST FANFICS PUBLISHED.

THIRDLY, BECAUSE THIS STORY WAS PUBLISHED THE YEAR BEFORE ROSS MARTIN PASSED ON AND THE ONE THING I HAVE LONG WANTED TO CORRECT IN BLIND BEGGAR IS THE SOMEWHAT HARSH PERSPECTIVE ON ARTEMUS. THAT NEEDS TO BE SOFTENED AND THAT HAPPENS HERE.

THOSE OF YOU WHO HAVE SUFFERED THROUGH, READ THE SEQUEL I CONCOCTED TO BLIND BEGGAR, TNOT WELL OF FIRE, ARE AWARE, AS I AM THAT FAN WRITERS CAN BE THOROUGHLY CARRIED AWAY AND OFF THE TRACK. A PHRASE THAT SUITS A WILD, WILD WEST STORY BETTER THAN MOST. LOL.

IN SEEKING TO OFFER FANDOM THE BEST I CAN GIVE, I HAVE INCLUDED THE MOST SIGNIFICANT SUBPLOT FROM WELL OF FIRE, THE ONE THAT HAS THE MOST TO SAY ABOUT MY VISION OF JAMES WEST:

THAT HE IS A HERO BECAUSE OF WHAT HE'S ENDURED AND OVERCOME, NOT ONLY BECAUSE HE'S STRONG, SMART, AGILE AND EASY ON THE EYES.

THAT HE IS AN ENTIRELY HUMAN, FLAWED, AND FALLIBLE PERSON WHO KNOWS THAT ABOUT HIMSELF AND CONSTANTLY, COURAGEOUSLY SOLDIERS ON.

THAT HE IS A MAN OF HIS TIMES IN OVERCOMING SEEMINGLY IMPOSSIBLE ODDS TO SEE HIMSELF AND HIS COUNTRY EMERGE WHOLE, STRONG, AND READY TO FACE WHATEVER THE FUTURE HOLDS.

IN SEEKING TO BE A BETTER WRITER ALL THE TIME HEREWITH:

THE NIGHT OF THE BLIND BEGGAR, 1980:

This work of fiction is one of my Alternative Universe, Wild, Wild West stories because it departs from canon in numerous particulars, large and small. As the term implies alternative universe fiction means that in order to explore broader scenarios and deeper characterizations, as well as simply to satisfy the writer and reader's itch for 'what would happen if?' and 'why the heck are they like that?' Feedback universally welcome and much needed to fuel the creative process.

For example, when it was written Blind Beggar gave James the middle name Torrance. I was way behind in watching W3 reruns and had forgotten the scene in Terror Stalked where Janus recites the agent's namesake as his uncle James Templeton. Well, Torrance gave me the perfect childhood name for the troubled agent 'Torry' so I stuck with it for TNOTBB. So, in Blind Beggar our green-eyed agent is named James Kiernan Torrance West, named for his maternal uncle, Jaimey Kiernan Torrance.

For another example, more significant imo, the doctor's name is not Miguelito Loveless as given onscreen. For these stories and their successors he is Miguel Raul Enrique Quixote de Cervantes del Olvidado y Sin Amor; and he is the grandson of two families who held vast land grants from the Spanish crown, in Nuevo Mexico, Colorado, Nevada and Alta California

This work of fiction is dedicated to the following very real and very special people:

Meredydd Jane Harper, my partner of 35+ years for inspiration, patience, unimaginable love and help in growing.

TracyD, the daughter of my heart, for also being a marvelous friend and kicker of bears in the butt.

Detsy, Edie, Vince, Nick, Vincent, Rachel, Bernadette, Mary, Sarah, Joanna, Anna, Elijah, Jesse, and Paul – a family full of love and support and encouragement.

CalGal, Niecie, Spotted Pony, Apple, ELJ, EL Sordo, Pet, Desert Roger, Aunt Maude, Effie Tait, MaryB, MariaR, BarbaraT, GailG, BethB, and other beyond counting for support, encouragement, beta reading, pointers, lessons, collaborations, laughing, cheering, discussions, complaints/pointers, praises, critiques and out and out teaching of a fellow writer, but most of all for their friendship.

And in alphabetical order because there's no other way to be fair:

Robert Conrad, Michael Dunn, James Garrison and Ross Martin and John Neubuhl for James Torrance West, Miguelito Quixote Loveless and Artemus Gordon, without whom this story and many, many of its betters would never have come to life.

Ronni Caitlin Gabrielle Sacksteder Baer,

March, 2015

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SCENE ONE:

MAIN WARD,

BALTIMORE COUNTY ASYLUM, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

JANUARY, 1874

The figure crouching in the far corner of the main ward had not moved in hours, except to pull inward on itself. Ragged garments hung from the wiry frame, obscuring it even further; a faded uniform blouse clearly made for heavier, larger man and hospital issue trousers, threadbare and torn. The wearer was hardly recognizable as a man.

_No,_ thought the observer. _He does not resemble a man, not nearly as much as the form of a stillborn infant. I should know. I have studied hundreds of those, trying to understand why – No, I am not here to reflect on my lifelong obsession. I can no more help what I was born than he can help what he has become. Am I too late to help him now? _

_Wait! He moved just then, away from the light! The dullards here, the fools, they still think he's stone blind. He's been in their supposed care for over a year and they don't think he can see. _

Moving away from the glaring light of late afternoon pouring in from the rows of high, barred windows brought the crouching man's dark head and sharp features into the observer's line of sight.

The man's bright green eyes had sunk into that face. Their brightness came the watcher noted, from harsh afternoon light stinging damaged optical nerves. The man's bright, blind eyes shifted, seeking to escape the light they registered as pain.

_Yes, he's blind,_ the observer realized, _but_ _not incurably so, not if daylight affects him in that way. If only I had my bag here, my tools. I don't because I'm an inmate here just as he is. I can't even seem to treat him, or we'll be kept apart, probably in isolation, where no one can help either of us. Damn these so called wardens and guards! Damn their indifference and their vicious games! That blind man is terrified of everyone around him and I hardly blame him _

For more than an hour the observer made cautious progress along the ward towards the blind man's corner fifteen yards away. Each step cost him agony spreading up through his legs and his spine. Every minute he spent in the smothering humidity of the open courtyard that served as the asylum's main ward cost him further crippling.

As he walked around other patients clustered in what little shade the walls offered, the observer recalled vividly explaining to the man he approached that his crippled spine kept him in constant, bone-grinding pain. Pain is my oldest friend, he'd said, it tells me I'm to live another day, even if it can be pain enough to drive the soundest mind to madness. Shame, surprise, even pity showed clearly in the man's green eyes, even at one of their earliest encounters, when they were captor and prisoner, enemies to their last bitter breath.

_We cannot be enemies here and now. Hard as that is to admit, we are both prisoners here. And you, my dear adversary have become your own worst enemy. I may pity you now and I do. All my life's pain and envy never made me want to escape as you have. No, it made me greedy for life, at whatever high cost. I am glad now, after all that, my greed did not devour your life. Yes, I believe I am quite glad! _

Dusk was falling by the time the observer reached the blind inmate and stopped, wondering how to keep from frightening the other into hysterics. Guards were working their way down the ward, lighting the high lamps, meaning the mandatory second meal of the day would come next. A guard would soon attempt to force feed the blind man, and then drive that inmate into a screaming fit with blows and taunts. At that point, the terrified inmate would be subjected to treatment, which in this place meant brutal, degrading punishment. Fearing that, the observer moved as best he could to prevent that sequence from starting again.

"Give me his bowl," he said, pointing to the blind man. "I'll feed him. I've done it before."

"You mean you'll steal his food when he don't eat none," the guard growled. " Can't allow that."

"No, sir," the watcher answered, swallowing his rage at the big man's fraudulent concern. "I meant I will feed him, without causing a scene."

"The hell you will!" the guard snarled, but he was unable to ignore the speaker's steady stare.

"Let the little fellow take the damn trencher, Karl," another guard, taller and burlier than the first called out, striding over to take part in whatever trouble was about to start.

"It's better than fighting with that screamer over there. Even when you try taking things easy with him, nothing works. Then he starts into yowling, kicking, and scratching and the whole danged ward goes along like a pack of coyotes! Neddy said he knew something about this here crazy; but they kicked Neddy outa here months ago and I got no idea what he meant."

"Pete, give it up. We all know they kicked Neddy out 'cause he was ... up to all kinds of trouble with the younger crazies in here. So, what now.., all right! I'm tired of fighting with that idiot there, anyway." the guard called Karl finally agreed.

A rough wooden trencher dropped into the watcher's hands, then half filled with a lumpy, colorless substance. This passed for stew in the asylum's records because it contained scraps of some sort of meat and was served lukewarm.

_Small wonder we inmates resist eating this until we're half starved,_ the observer thought.

Now he had to rouse the blind man for this so called meal. This was a process he'd gone through numerous times in the past seven weeks. The blind man responded, if minimally to food, to a less brutal voice, to quiet sympathy and at times to the observer as a person.

_Perhaps I am no more real to him than this nightmare place. Perhaps nothing is real to him but the tings he gets by way of treatments, and his blindness now. Every day he's more withdrawn. _

Another memory of the man before him nudged and the observer smiled. In different circumstances, no less difficult than these, the blind man confided his childhood nickname with huge reluctance and no little anger.

"_Torry! Damn you, if it's any of your business, my mother called me Torry. It was just a baby name, Doctor, something akin to Miguelito." The then healthy, if frustrated man snarled, years ago, giving trivial answers to what he clearly took to be insignificant questions. _

"Torry," the watcher whispered. "Torry, I've your supper here. Do you hear me, Torry?"

The dark, unkempt head lifted. The pale eyelids flickered. The blind man's mouth worked silently into a tremulous frown.

_Not insignificant now,_ Miguel de Cervantes y del Olvidado y Sin Amor considered, allowing himself a taut smile. _Now that name is the key to your hiding place, dear adversary. Now that baby name, that family name which only your various siblings, cousins, uncles, aunts from Virginia to Wyoming and from Pennsylvania to Texas, use for you, opens my way to begin our work in earnest. I guessed as much not long after I came here. Now I'm sure. Now I can give you a name you'll answer to. _

"I won't hurt you, Torry. I won't. I have your supper, Torry." de Cervantes said again.

The blind man stayed frozen against the wall a moment longer. Then he flung himself towards the watcher, in the general direction of the bowl he held. de Cervantes almost lost his balance, but kept hold of the trencher. Food spilled. The blind man ignored what landed on his garments and grabbed wildly for the trencher. Abruptly the smaller man realized his actions were not understood.

"Torry," he repeated. "Give me your hands. Here, like this." Firmly he grasped the blind man's wrists and set the trencher on his upturned palms. "Now, eat some of this, Torry. I know you're hungry. You've likely had nothing for three days."

Dim astonishment wrote itself on the blind man's features. He knew only brutality now. Anything else was strange, frightening, wrong. For an instant hunger overwhelmed his clouded paranoia. Scuttling back to his corner like a puppy with bone, he gobbled the food; vividly afraid someone would take it away.

"You shouldn't eat so fast, Torry," de Cervantes frowned. Then he moved as swiftly as he could to help as the blind man doubled over, violently sick.

After several minutes, the blind man lay heaving and shivering, miserable in the aftermath of the seizure. Curling up again, he was shaking and sobbing with the shock, misery, and hunger that combined to leave him helpless. As the younger man slowly relaxed, de Cervantes took his tin cup and retrieved some water from one of the barrels set in a row down the length of the ward.

"You really are a little boy called Torry, aren't you?" de Cervantes asked when he returned, even more gently than before.

"You've no more sense than a ... let me see, a five year old who missed his supper, have you? Yet, I have to wonder what is a sick, scared little boy called Torry doing here?"

The blind inmate turned his head obliquely in the direction of his companion. He had heard this resonant, clear, calm voice before; but he didn't have an adult's sense of time now to tell him when. He knew the nightmare secrets of his being here, sick, scared, and brutally punished were still secret from everyone in this place. He knew that his especially secret name was used here by no one except:

"Mi...Miguel?" he whispered, hardly daring to give the watcher a name.

"I'm here, Torry," Miguel de Cervantes replied, reaching for and grasping the other's blindly lifted hand. "I've got some water for you. Here, in this cup. No, sip it, Torry, Slowly."

Gratefully and slowly, the blind man sipped from the tin cup held to his lips. Then he turned back towards de Cervantes.

"Miguel," he repeated warily, with a solemn belief in his fears. "They ... they hurted you. They hurted you, didn't they?"

De Cervantes stared. Not once in seven weeks had the blind man expressed concern beyond his own terror or fear beyond his own pain. He had hardly seemed to recall his terrible surroundings from one day to the next. He had hardly spoken a full sentence, even in this childhood patois to anyone here.

Now he spoke, recalled and worried over Miguel's week-old quarrel with the guards. This was a pleasant shock when de Cervantes expected a severe relapse. Now Miguel knew for certain that the blind man's childhood held both his prison and the key to let him out.

"Miguel," Torry repeated when the doctor kept silent. "They... they yelled so much... I couldn't hear you...Miguel. I couldn't hear you anywhere."

"No, no, they didn't hurt me, Torry," de Cervantes answered. "I can tell by looking that they beat you, but they didn't hurt me. I told them what I thought of cowards who persecute helpless ... helpless children. That's why they got angry with me. Well, I'll tell them again and again, Torry, if they try to hurt you again. They'll have to find someone else to torment for their pleasure. I'll not allow another of those brutes ...those overgrown, under educated thugs, _esos cobardes _to harm a child!"

Righteously angry, Miguel still managed to grin at himself for beginning a speech he had often addressed to the man next to him now. That was a time when that man was standing whole, sound, and sane above the doctor. Torry would understand neither Miguel's anger nor his grin, if he could see them crossing the smaller man's face.

"Miguel, they'll come back!" Torry began to wail.

"I'll be here to tell them what cretins and bullies they are! I'll find a way to stop them, Torry. I swear it." Miguel soothed the child-man.

How many reasons to distrust my oaths lie buried in your adulthood, I wonder, Torry. How many thousands of times have I lied to you or you to me to achieve our cross-purposes? Well, we have the same purpose now, whether you know it or not. And won't you be surprised when you find out?

"Now, they're not going to come back this evening, Torry. They're not even going to come back to replace your supper. So, I want you to try to go to sleep. You must try, Torry."

"I wanta stay sittin' up a talkin', Miguel," Torry protested. "I wanta..."

"You don't want to sleep, because you can't do that very well at all these days." de Cervantes answered.

"I've nothing here to help you sleep, either. I wish I did, Torry. How long since you've slept through a night, I wonder. Do you know? No, I doubt that." Miguel said, expecting no helpful response from the child-man, whose face was haggard and lined with exhaustion.

"Do as I ask, Torry. Lie back on your pallet there and rest."

"You'll stay with Torry. You'll stay and talk, Miguel?" Torry bargained childishly.

"I'll stay. I've certainly nowhere else to go. Lie back and close your eyes, Torry. I'll stay."

Reluctantly, twining his hand in Miguel's for comfort, Torry obeyed. From what he'd been told, and what he'd observed so far, Miguel was the only person Torry willingly obeyed here. The open viciousness and oddly juxtaposed indifference of the guards here did nothing to encourage obedience in the inmates. At the worst, it led to dangerous acts of rebellion by the inmates, at best; it prompted a sullen, frustrated temporary compliance from them.

Miguel was also the only person in this asylum, a transmogrified warehouse near Baltimore's harbor, Torry spoke to now; the only one he'd spoken too in fifteen months' time. That made Miguel the only person in the compound that even guessed at Torry's secrets. Trusting and exhausted, Torry soon slept. He had no strength to sit up and ponder as de Cervantes did now.

The ragged, emaciated child-man sleeping beside Miguel now was in fact thirty years old. Yet except among his first cousins, as de Cervantes had learned, the 'baby name' Torry had scarcely been used beyond his sixth year. The blind inmate's acceptance of the name here and now meant that in his own perception he was no more than five years old. He had retreated twenty-four years into a frightened, dream-shrouded, and false version of his childhood. In that retreat, he'd lost or been robbed of the means to escape. Blindness was, for the time being, the least of Torry's dilemmas.

_You've more than enough enemies here as it is, just counting the ones that show themselves in this vile place. The ones who left you here as someone might leave a sack of spoiled rice on a wharf are the worse cowards. They did you grievous harm and then abandoned you, a helpless little boy in a madhouse! They are the ones I must find and defeat... when the time comes to confront them. And confront those monsters on two legs I shall, my oath on that. _

_Only a human being is capable of the base cruelty to another living being that they've shown in this matter. The so-called lower animals have no such need to control and destroy all the living beings around them. None of the other species of mammals, the birds, the reptiles, the various sea creatures, go about exterminating other living beings for political or economic gain. Only men do, and call it justified, call it righteous, call it honorable when they should only call it War. _

_Indeed, in our present circumstances, it may be a great help that you can't see me, Torry. I don't know and I wouldn't care to risk how the sight of Miguelito Loveless could affect you. It's just as well too that you're a little boy for the present. I've always found children easier to reach than so-called grown folks. No, we're not enemies at this point, Torry. You won't understand that we were, or why we are not now for some time to come, if ever. _

Smiling in the summer moonlight that began to fill the courtyard, Miguel de Cervantes considered himself for a moment. At age forty, he was barely the height of a tall four year old. Dwarfism had restricted his frame, his arms, and legs to childlike proportions. His spine and his legs were severely damaged at birth, leaving Miguel crippled and pain ridden all his life.

Beyond that, the disease that caused the dwarfism to begin with was constantly at work destroying his bones, his joints, and his health. There was no escaping his physical condition and no time for his busy mind to achieve all he wished to. There was only what time he could steal and only the escape into a life of inquiry, invention, conflict, and confrontation with the world and its healthy population.

_My legs, Torry were twisted harshly at birth, because the woman who should have delivered me was ill herself and her replacement had no idea what to do with a breach-born child, and feared to risk the life of my lady mother. She would not even attempt a Cesarean delivery. Instead, she worked for hours to twist and turn me until she could drag me out, no doubt scowling and shouting in protest. My legs and my spine never recovered from that disaster, and they never will. I live with pain as my oldest friend these days, just as I once told you, Torry. _

_The difference between us just now is that my legs were twisted so badly that they will not function as G-d intended; and your memories have been just as cruelly twisted into nightmares. Well, I know I can heal your memory, Torry as I can never heal my own crippling. There was a time when I would have, when I did state that I, Miguel de Cervantes y del Olvidado y Sin Amor, would prove to be the only one in the world who could help you out of dire trouble. _

_I said I would be the only person on the planet who will be able to save you someday and that would be my true revenge on your hale, whole, sane, sensible self; doing what only I could do and watching your face, as you understood that. That time is now, Torry and oddly enough, I will be satisfied with your recovery when it comes, than I would be with your realization of my sworn word being kept. So now, sleep and I will keep watch over a man who is so oddly no longer my enemy; and only partly because he is not at present James Kiernan Torrance West. _

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SCENE TWO:

When it started:

Former Army Hospital, Washington, DC.

January, 1872 –

James T. West stood grinning at his partner, Artemus Gordon, who lay on his back, grinning feebly in return. West didn't say he was glad to see Gordon; and Artie didn't chide Jim for the omission. Artemus had gone missing for nine days before being found and brought to this hospital the day before. Jim entered the ward with real concern in his clear, green eyes.

Absent without leave, Artie?" Jim scolded solemnly. "For nine days? I'm surprised at you, partner. You could have at least let me know where the party was!"

Gordon laughed and then groaned as his broken, tightly bound ribs complained.

"How could I let you know, James? I still don't know where I've been... while obviously having so much fun, for nine... Hold on! Did you say nine days?"

"Nine, Artie. Nine days and eight nights, starting when you took up position across the city, near the Long Bridge and sent Hildy back to the train." Jim answered.

"How are the ladies, James?" Gordon asked.

"Well Hildegard is fine, now that she knows you're back. On the other hand, Loretta, Genevieve, and Carlotta haven't spoken a civil word to me all week. Also, Henrietta, Mariah, Mariamne, Jessamyn, Maude, and Terese won't even come out to eat! They miss you, Artie. They can't r these long separations."

"Poor ladies!" Gordon exclaimed.

"What about poor me?" West demanded, feigning outrage. "Artie, do you want to see my scars? Do you want to see where Therese almost took my left ear off?"

"No!" Artemus laughed aloud and wished he hadn't done that much shifting of his ribcage. "No, James, please!"

"All right. I just came over to tell you I won't be around for a few days. Frank will be at the train, if you're worried about the ladies. They seem to take to him very well," Jim laughed.

"I've got to go. Colonel Richmond wants to know who's killing off the beggar population of Washington and why. He also wants to know that as of sometime last week. See ya, Artie."

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WASHINGTON DC

NEW JERSEY STREET STATION,

BALTIMORE AND OHIO RAILROAD DEPOT,

THE WANDERER,

January, 1872

" ...Tonight. I haven't got time for any more of your invaluable advice on play acting, Frank." Jim West complained loudly from his cabin. "It's almost full dark and..."

"That's exactly the sort of slip up you can't make, Jim! That's exactly the sort of natural, easy phrasing a blind man will never use again in his life." Frank Harper replied sharply.

"You're a stone blind, ex-Confederate scrapping an existence in the District by grifting, stealing and begging, remember? You cannot tell dusk from daylight. Also, nobody expects a beggar to be punctual."

"I heard you, Frank," West said, now emerging from his cabin. His satin vest and fine wool suit had been replaced by a well-worn Confederate sergeant's uniform. His hair was mashed down under a butternut grey kepi. His face was half hidden under straggling whiskers and deep scars around his eyes. Jim reached out hesitantly to balance his uncertain steps.

Instinctively Harper reached to halt West's stumbling progress short of the marble topped writing table. Grasping his friend's proffered arm, Jim let out a peal of triumphant laughter.

"If you could see your face!" he shouted. "This disguise was partly your idea, Frank!"

Harper smiled faintly. He was not amused by the dangers of the mission West was laughingly taking on. Nor did he like the reckless, stubborn challenge that lit Jim's eyes. _'Try and stop me, if you think you can." _

_Jim has always been too confident for his own good, _the older agent thought.

"No sir! It was my idea to get myself set up as another Southern street beggar, Jim, not you. You were meant to follow me, as close as might be reasonable, and pull me out of whatever trouble I found out by the Long Bridge." Frank contradicted his friend.

"Which is exactly what Artie planned, which is likely exactly what these killers expect us to keep on doing. Only they don't expect me, Frank, not as a Southern street beggar. This is why Colonel Richmond ordered me to perform the masquerade this time. He did that, Frank no more than five minutes after I recommended we stop playing to these murderer's expectations.

"The Colonel knows and so do you that you and Artie, Jeremy, even our team doctor, Jacques and Mac Macquillan can all talk your way out of whatever trouble you find, nine times out of ten. Well this is that tenth time. So, I'm setting myself up as the blind beggar, while you bring up the cavalry, as needed. Is that clear?" West's green eyes showed anger, but not with Harper.

He was angry about the previous plan, the failed plan in which he had taken the 'cavalry' role. He had not found, much less rescued Artemus as needed. Without a word spoken about it, Frank knew the younger man was as determined to stop these seemingly pointless, horridly vicious murders as he was to redeem his failure.

"Clear," Harper answered in a quiet tone.

West's anger faded like a summer storm. He took a cautious, blind man's tour of the varnish car, to find a battered tin cup and a pair of cobalt blue hooded spectacles.

"I'm ready. These specs are as good as a blindfold," Jim said, putting spectacles on after the cup's leather thong slipped around his neck.

Right If you're so ready, let's hear that Old Dominion drawl," Frank demanded, knowing this was another challenge. Jim claimed he could never wrap his tongue around dialects the way Artie or Frank or Jeremy Pike could.

"Ah'll have ye know...Damn it, Frank!" Jim exclaimed.  
"I was born at Jefferson Barracks, Missouri and raised in Norfolk, Charlotte, Raleigh, Asheville, and Wilmington, without even talking about the Yankee side of the family. They're clustered around Philadelphia, Chambersburg, Frederick, Silver Springs, with a longtime outpost in Concord, right outside of Boston. That's not even talking about my second cousins.

" I lived at my grandparent's home outside Norfolk until I was ...nine, then started going to schools in Charlotte, Raleigh, Cincinnati and down in New Orleans, none of them genuinely northern cities, wouldn't you say? If a couple or three things had been different, this uniform could have been mine." West said more quietly, looking down at his tattered clothing.

"If it were, you'd be out of a job, Jim," Frank chuckled. "Last I heard the Service isn't recruiting ex-Rebels, Amnesty Oaths not withstanding. Besides that, you would surely have earned rank higher than some lowly sergeant, even in Bobby Lee's army. You'd have been a first lieutenant anyway, considering you graduated West Point. Come to think of it, as short handed as they came to be, you might have made captain, even major."

Jim smiled and shook his head. "I pulled a major's rank, Frank, you just weren't around to see it. I got a brevet promotion to major after Knoxville. Now, about Bobby Lee's Army? Are you kidding, just a measly captain? Why, by the time I got through with that Army I'd have been a Brigadier General at least, and the whole, entire War would have gone the other way! And you can tell Bobby Lee and Jeff Davis I said so! They just never got around to sending for me, that's all. Now what are we waiting for, General Harper?"

"Oh now I finally get the promotion I deserve, is that it?" Frank laughed aloud. "What we're waiting for is for you to listen to me, Brigadier West."

"I'm listening, I'm listening," Jim answered, plainly resisting an urge to roll his eyes.

"Fine. Hear this: You don't yet seem to understand what a great many of these beggars, the ones being murdered outright or ten almost to death the way Artemus was, have something very particular in common with me, as a matter of fact."

That got West's full attention and Harper grinned to see it.

"Thought that would catch your interest. Now, insofar as we know, most of these men were not just Southern, and not just veterans of the Army of Northern Virginia. They were North Carolinians, like me and my family, and like us, from down around Wilmington and Cape Fear."

"Hold on a minute, Frank," Jim said, carefully now keeping his eyes away from the other agent. "I was listening just then. Wouldn't you say he was very likely to have been in Jackson's command during the first two years of the War? Wouldn't you say that if a Confederate soldier was from the Wilmington region of North Carolina, he was very likely to be part of the 18th North Carolina Infantry?"

"Yes, yes he would," Harper said, just as thoughtfully. "So it looks like a lot of these murdered Confederates were likely in the regiment that fired on Stonewall Jackson... utterly by mistake, right after Chancellorsville. Well that surely gives our murderers one hell of a motive!"

"Yes," Jim answered, even more quietly. "How many times in the past few years have we heard someone claiming that Jackson would have won the War for the South without needing to stop for a deep breath? Well, I for one don't believe that; but..."

"Just as you mentioned, Jim, there are plenty of Lost Cause supporters of Jubal Early and so forth who take it for gospel truth," Frank nodded. " So someone of that mind set; someone who took that idea and went a little crazy with it would be a more than likely suspect. I'm not sure how much that idea shrinks the list of suspects though."

"Well, it leaves out a majority of former Confederates, I'd guess, who were as glad as anyone in the North to see the War over and done with." Jim said. "It happens I know quite a few people who fall under that rational heading and so do you, Frank.

Now, c'mon. Let's get this masquerade underway. These killers were waiting for Artie, and they're probably waiting for you to show up in full marching gear with a week's cooked rations, as it were. So, we need to get the ball rolling, as the President likes to say. I've never believed in keeping a bunch of killers waiting. "

WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

SCENE THREE

BALTIMORE COUNTY ASYLUM,

FEBRUARY, 1874

Waiting for the doctor to turn his way, Miguel de Cervantes noticed the black leather valise standing open on a low shelf. It was a matter of ridiculous ease for Miguel to avail himself of the bag's useful contents. To his own humiliation Miguel once narrowly survived by pick pocketing in this manner. Now he wanted only such items as might help his work with Torry. In minutes, de Cervantes had syringes and other key devices secreted in his hospital garb. Then he grinned cheerfully as the doctor turned his way.

"You may go, m'sieur," the doctor said, turning back to the man he had just examined. "You will not cure that cough with such medicine as you have been taking. Comprendez?"

The inmate nodded and climbed down from the rough wooden table. Leaving the infirmary, he was already coughing again from the exertion. Sighing deeply, the doctor turned to face Miguel, holding the dwarf in a thoughtful gaze.

"And you, m'sieur, your name, what is it?" the doctor asked, with the inflection of his native Montreal.

"Miguel," de Cervantes said, a little louder than he might have while a guard outside leaned against the wall opposite the infirmary door.

"Ah, Miguel that is Spanish, oui? That is much like our Michel, oui?" the doctor asked as if he had never laid eyes on the dwarf before this moment.

"Yes, Doctor," Miguel agreed.

"Very well, I am Docteur D'eglisier, m'sieur Miguel. What may I help you with? You must know I cannot ease the arthritis in your legs; especially not in this climate."

"It isn't myself I came to get your help for, Doctor. There's another patient up here, confined in their isolation ward. He needs your help urgently, Doctor. You'll come with me now?" Miguel said, already walking towards the door.

"That may not be permitted, m'sieur. You won't know that I am here on a temporary basis, awaiting the licensure of the Maryland legislature." D'eglisier said, also for the guard's benefit. "Why has this man been confined?"

Miguel's felt his face suffuse with anger. "The brutes hired as guards here lock up any inmate they claim is dangerous. They only make such claims, M'sieur Docteur, when an inmate will not or cannot submit to their tyranny especially in the main ward. So they take these suffering wretches one or two at a time and they isolate and abuse them.

"The man who needs your help emergently, Doctor is not only blind, he suffers from violent nightmares which these so called caretakers exploit. They base their claims of his being a danger to himself and others on the fact that he awakens from these horrible dreams in hysterics if no one is there to ease him.

"He's harmed no one, Doctor. He's not capable of any such deeds. He's as harmless as a child. In fact, he is presently very like a small boy, a sickened and terrified little boy. Indeed in his mind this poor fellow is no more than five years old."

The guard strolled away, apparently bored with the discussion he easily overheard. Taking no chances on that boredom, Miguel turned his back to the door and began to use sign language to communicate his main points to the Canadian physician.

_Torry woke up the other morning in such a state of terror that I could not calm him before these damnable guards interfered. _Miguel signed.

_They refused to let me help him, as I've been able to do almost every time that happened. Instead, they dragged him out of the ward and when I heard nothing more for several hours I used all my resources to find out where they took the child. _

_All your resources, Miguel? _Jacques D'eglisier asked in the same language._ Never mind that for now. I know cette batards use what are supposedly treatment rooms up here to do the most wretched things to these inmates. _

'_I have also seen our Torry, le pauvre si brave, awaken from nightmares that leave him babbling, screaming and almost entirely unreachable all over again; as he was when we first found him in this abominable place. But for helplessly showing his terror, these monsters punish him! Which of the rooms have they taken Torry to this time, Miguel?_

_This time he's in the locked room at the other end of that corridor. _Miguel answered, gesturing to the hallway behind him.

_That's why I came to get you this morning. He's been in there nearly two days now! G-d only know what condition the child is in by this time! I'm sure they t him, as they've done before. That's why you must go down there. He's terrified of being alone, Doctor. If you'll just go to him. _

Jacques looked towards the doorway and seeing no one in the hall nodded.

"I shall go at once; and you will come with me. In that way I will not frighten le petite Torry, oui?" he said quietly.

"They won't allow me in there!" Miguel exploded. "I've been trying. I've been doing everything but climbing the outer wall to reach the child, for two days! That's the worst part of this ruse I..." Miguel faltered at a sharp glance from D'eglisier. A pair of footsteps just outside the infirmary made the point that much stronger.  
"I'm just another inmate here, after all," Miguel went on, in a quieter tone. "They won't allow me to help Torry much at all. Why else would I ask your help, Doctor? The other ... people here who refer to themselves as doctors... they are no more than penitentiary wardens."

"Yet they must allow what I demand in order to treat my charges here, non. Oui!" Jacques replied.

Together, half an hour later, Miguel and Jacques entered the locked room and found Torry terrified and helpless, strapped into a straitjacket.

"Sacre!" Jacques exclaimed. " Sacrebleu! James taught me how to escape one of these horrid devices! Ces enfants de Carême!"

"Children of Lent?" Miguel translated roughly. As he listened to Jacques, the doctor worked on the straps with a surgeon's deftness.

Jacques sighed as he looked for the main strap to begin releasing his friend and sometime partner.

"Observant Catholics were meant to refrain from ... activities by which they might produce heirs during Lent. Such being the expectation, a child born nine months later would be suspect as to the legitimacy of his conception."

The child-man struggled and pulled away, so frightened that even Miguel's quiet tones could not reassure him. He coughed harshly and wheezed when he didn't have air enough to cough. He twisted away from both doctor's hands and tried to scream in a raw throat. Torry could not be examined in this hysteric state and Jacques agreed to sedate him. Jacques administered only a quarter of a grain of morphine by syringe taking great care not to use more when the blind man showed every sign of pneumonia, or a new case of bronchitis. When the sedative began to show its effect, the doctors went on working Torry free. Still the blind man pulled away until Miguel spoke quietly but urgently.

"Torry," Miguel said grasping the blind man's right hand as soon as it came free. "Torry, listen to me. It's Miguel. I'm right here, Torry. It's Miguel. You know I do not hurt you. Do you understand me, Torry? We're going to take this horrid shirt off you. Lay still, Torry."

"Miguel?" Torry finally asked, his voice shaking as hard as his thin frame. "Miguel?"

"I'm right here, Torry, right here. As soon as I get this last ..." Miguel pulled one last strap open and lifted the shirt up over Torry's head. When it was gone, Miguel let out an angry gasp, while Jacques sought to muffle his own shocked response. Torry's back was crisscrossed with welts, swollen and white. The treatment given him the last two nights had been the worst ting the blind man had in months.

"Mon Dieu!" Jacques exclaimed, his hazel eyes wide under his heavy brow.

"Miguel, who's that?" Torry cried, fearful again despite the medicine in his veins. "Who's that? Miguel?"

"Torry, he's a doctor, a good one, a friend." Miguel answered, glancing at Jacques.

"I would be a friend," Jacques said, studying the blind man so intently he did not see Miguel studying him. "I am called Jacques... Jacques D'eglisier. Miguel tells me your name is Torry. What sort of name is that, mon petit?"

"It's ... it's my ...my name," the blind man said slowly. "It's the middle... middle in my name... Granma Rae said ... b'cause of unc' Jaimey an' Granpoppy.. Granma Rae said..." The small dosage of morphine was beginning to work on Torry. His restless blind eyes dulled. His whole frame visibly relaxed.

"Miguel?"

"Here I am, Torry, right here," Miguel answered as he had done for months.

"I'm going...asleep," Torry slurred. In another moment, he was sleeping if shallowly.

D'eglisier shook his head and began to examine and then treat Torry's injured back, noting that welts covered it's entire length.

"I will speak to the Directors of this wretched place in this regard!" Jacques declared when he'd finished.

"I will not abide such wickedness! He is a child to all intents! He is a helpless, frightened child now! I should have guessed; but even to imagine this level of abuse... This has to stop; and I will stop it, Miguel."

"I know you will, Mon docteur ami," Miguel answered, looking up at D'eglisier. A few years ago this young man, of an age with West, a native of Montreal, and an agent was just one more sound, strong, sane young man whom Miguel envied and loathed. These days de Cervantes knew he could not envy Torry in any way, and D'eglisier's vivid concern made old bitterness pointless now.

Born in Lyons and educated there and in Montreal, Jacques D'eglisier was a skilled, compassionate physician and a fair surgeon by Miguel's standards. His broad shouldered frame, strong, supple hands and muscular legs spoke to the younger doctor being an equestrian, as good a one as James West. His sandy hair was thinning at the crown, but still fell over Jacques high forehead when he was absorbed in a task. His wide hazel eyes showed every emotion the younger doctor possessed, unless he was reminded to pull down a professional man's mask.

'Thank you, Doctor," Miguel said his eyes back on the sleeping child-man. "Merci beaucoup."

"De rien. Do not thank me, Miguel. You are the one to whom we all owe thanks. You come to this horrid place, you stay with this ... child who once was your stern enemy and our good friend." Jacques answered, studying Miguel in his turn.

" You found the key to unlock Torry's sad little voice, his childhood name which none of us recalled. Even Thomas Macquillan who's known James all his life had forgotten the one thing that might have helped notre si pauvre, si brave ami much sooner. Torry might have died here, alone, blind and ... mad while we stood helplessly by; our friend James might be dead now without your help. So, do not thank me, Mon Docteur ami. No more than most of my colleagues do I know what you seem to be expert at, 'how to minister to a mind diseas'd', non?"

"If by colleagues you mean the dastardly fools who call themselves doctors in this vile place, you are more right than you know, Jacques," Miguel said.

"They know nothing to help these wretched men and they care less! They don't know a lunatic from a genius. They keep their records in minutiae and forget they're recording the lives of human beings. They self-righteously denounce as mad, men and women who need only..." de Cervantes chuckled now and shrugged.

"If I know how to minister as you say, Docteur, it's mostly because I've had to minister to my own mania all these years. I've had to invent and reinvent the ways and means of carrying on a scientist's life, a medical man's life while trapped in the body of a bigheaded child myself."

"I believe I understand that to some extent, Miguel," Jacques replied. "There is something I do not understand at all going on this morning, though."

Shifting his gaze from Torry to the Montrealer, Miguel smiled and shrugged. "What can I help you to understand then, Docteur?"

"Simply put, I do not comprehend your reason for pilfering three syringes, a scalpel, two vials of medicine, some bindings and two pieces of expensive rubber tubing from my satchel earlier today." D'eglisier said with a bemused smile.

"Can you explain it to me, Miguel?"

"What makes you think I pilfered those items or anything else from your black bag, Docteur?" Miguel asked, putting up a show of outraged innocence.

"For the reason that none of my patients here would be interested in the least in most, if not all of those things." Jacques replied. "Not only that but only a physician would know how to make any use of them. You are a highly trained, well-educated physician in your own right, n'c'est pas, Miguel. That being the case, why would not simply ask me for whatever devices or medicines you might need? Why take them without my knowledge, mon ami?"

"If I took them," Miguel demurred, "if I did, then clearly you were aware of the fact the entire time. However, since you are asking as one doctor to another, the answer is quite simple. If you are robbed of some of your implements, you cannot be held accountable in their further use. You would then be seen as my victim in that case, not my accomplice. Comprenez vous?"

"Certainment, you are protecting my reputation." Jacques began to chuckle and shook his head. "Merci, mille fois merci."

"This is, as I've said a thousand times by now, a vile place, Jacques. The men held here as prisoners, never mind they're called inmates have done no one any wrong, or broken any laws." Miguel answered.

"Every few weeks, sometimes every day more of them are cast away in here, based on one legal fiction or another. My belief, however is that most of these men have been incarcerated at the whim of powerful, influential or wealthy people who do this sort of horrendous thing simply because no one dares stop them. Well, I dare stop men of such evil minds and hearts as well as all abuses of that kind, Mon Docteur ami, and I will!"

Jacques sighed, he shared Miguel's outrage with this purported asylum and more like it in every large city he'd ever seen. Bedlam was a kind, gentle term to apply to most of them; and their inmates were often the political victims and opponents of the ruling class.

"I agree with you, Miguel, absolutement, d'accord." Jacques said. "Yet we have all remonstrated with the men who seem to be in charge here; and our protests have done more harm than good, it seems. From that we've deduced that there are men far more powerful and far viler than we've seen here who control this compound and everyone in it. I would not see you taken away from Torry at this point. As we saw just then, he knows none of his friends and fears everyone but you and Thomas Macquillan that we've seen."

"Yes, you were going to tell me how it happened that even without speaking to him, Macquillan forged a connection to Torry some months back." Miguel nodded.

"While the child sleeps, why don't you tell me about that, Jacques?"

Briefly Jacques sketched the past connection the agent team's leader, Thomas Leo Macquillan had with James West and his family. Macquillan met and befriended Stephen West when both men attended Yale. Their friendship grew to include Stephen's wife Anni and with time, their children.

"Mac' Macquillan as his friends called him became a friend and mentor to Stephen's second born son Torry, when that boy was beginning prep school in Frederick, Maryland. With Mac's influence added to the connections of Torry's namesake uncle James, the young West got an appointment to West Point that had been his lifelong dream.

"You know some of that history, I believe, Miguel. So I will leave the middle ground and tell you about the days after Thomas and I discovered our friend James, that is le petit Torry, here. We were outraged by his condition, oui and utterly at a loss for what to do. He barely moved from the back corner of that horrible main ward, and hardly moved at all. He did not speak. He hardly made a sound. He seemed not to be aware enough to understand we were speaking to him.

"We feared James was in a catatonic state at first. Also we thought there must be damage not only to his eyes but to his ears and vocal chords, or some genre of aphasia. He showed no recognition for our voices, not even Thomas' that he'd known most of his life. He suffered with malaria during the spring and bronchitis in the fall.

"What seemed worse than all these things to us was the amnesia James presented with. In no way could it be said to be a naturally occurring nervous state. In no way could a natural loss of memory last for a year's time. This amnesia was enforced on our young friend and for reasons we cannot yet tell. Yet, within that state, he recollected much of his boyhood to the age of five.

"Thomas also noted as we all have how constantly, vividly fearful Torry was. We began to consider that he was not physically unable but desperately afraid to speak. Clearly, a cruel restraint was imposed on his mind and spirit. Not knowing what coercion was used against him we dared not press that point.

"So Thomas sat silently with the boy, day by day and began out of long habit to whittle some wooden toys. One of them took the shape of a small wooden horse on wheels. While he whittled Thomas also set out to ... what is that odd phrase... ah, oui, to picnic beside the child. Bits of bread or cheese were set on a kerchief and left for the child to investigate and hopefully to eat. You've seen for yourself how much weight our friend has lost, non?

"After some time Thomas put the wooden toys on the kerchief as well. Torry by then was used to exploring the kerchief for edibles, so these hard, polished creations were something of a surprise. Not surprising though was the fact that Torry immediately clutched the tiny horse and began to play with it in sheer delight. Thomas was just as delighted, seeing that the lifelong horseman he knows was still alive within that small boy."

"After that happened, when a connection was finally made to the child-mind, to Torry," Miguel interjected. "You and Mr. Macquillan decided to seek my help. You decided to come to my home in Richmond and tell me about Torry. Why, Jacques? Did something more happen to lead you to a decision that could not have been easy?"

" Non, it was more a matter of what did not happen. The child still could not speak to any of us. That was the major point of all our discussions at that time. Also, he would not be touched by any of us for so much as an instant. Because of that impediment, we could not even attempt to use a manual alphabet." Jacques said frowning.

"By that time it was clear to us that Torry's hearing was not impaired and neither was his voice. He heard every footstep in that place that approached him and every voice that spoke to him or around him. Also the child cried out in terror when the guards, as they've done again now, dragged him from the ward to abuse him. That being the case we had to have some means of communicating with Torry that did not terrify him."

"Torry, that is Mr. West will be entertained at some point to think I was the choice for someone who would not terrify him," Miguel smiled.

"G-d willing," Jacques agreed. "The Good G-d willing, I will be quite happy to explain the matter to James."

"Well you've answered my question, Jacques," Miguel said now, emptying his pockets onto a small table next to Torry's bed.

"I suppose I should answer yours. I intended to use the implements from your satchel for a means of getting some nutrients into Torry. I think it could be done just as I envisioned, except that the septic environment in this horrible place makes it too dangerous to attempt. At some other place, in a sterile or nearly sterile environment, I mean to try the method I've invented. I call it administering easily digested or liquid sustenance intravenously.

"The problem still stands, then, how to improve the child's health without such barbarisms as force feeding or such experimental techniques as mine. He eats poorly, very poorly even in comparison to our fellow inmates. He sleeps worse than he eats which only decreases his appetite. Also, these bastards have dosed the child on a regular basis, which impairs his nervous condition, his lung function, his sleep, and his appetite still further. It's a vicious cycle, Mon docteur ami, which is slowly killing Torry and half the other men incarcerated here."

D'eglisier collected the items, studying each one as he did so. The doctor's inventiveness was well known to the team of agents that included Jacques, Frank Harper, Jeremy Pike, Ned Brown, James West, and Artemus Gordon. To see it used as a means to benefit James West now was mildly disconcerting, Jacques considered.

"Perhaps we can smuggle something in here to feed Torry decently," Jacques said. "I will write his cousin Jeanne, or perhaps one of his sisters to find out what Torry most enjoyed eating... as a boy. Or perhaps I will travel down to Norfolk to get those answers more quickly."

"You're already thinking of traveling down to Virginia, then?" Miguel asked turning away from the sleeping child-man to look at Jacques.

"Oui, why do you ask?"

"Because I was about to ask you to train down to Richmond as a favor to myself and to my wife, Antoinette," Miguel answered.

"I don't see why not," Jacques replied. "What may I do for you and Senora de Cervantes?"

"We aren't in the position just now to be able to correspond on a regular basis and that's hard enough on us both. From the time I came here Thomas and Francis, Jeremy and ...I believe the man's name is Bosley have ferried messages back and forth between Antoinette and myself, a dozen times or so. Any more would have risked exposure of my ruse, and thus my removal from the asylum.

"Beyond that, all the records and notes, written observations and such I have compiled over the years on various patients and ...subjects is in file cabinets that take up most of our attic and half of our cellar in Richmond. I need some of those records and Antoinette's notations on them to plan the next step I must take with Torry. If I give you a list of the records and notes I need, Mon Docteur Ami, a verbal record to be memorized, will you visit Antoinette and bring those records back to me? Have you a good enough memory to do us that favor?"

"I believe so," Jacques said. "Mais, why do you feel this list of records should not be written down, mon ami?"

Miguel looked at the Montrealer and smiled.

"It's a matter of long habit between my beautiful wife and I, Mon ami. For any number of reasons we've kept our written correspondence to a minimum for some years now. I don't think I need explain that in further detail to you, as one of the parties I wished to keep such correspondence secret from?"

"Not in the least, Doctor," Jacques smiled back.

"I will be glad to take whatever message you like to your lady wife. She was quite gracious indeed to Thomas and myself when we came to Richmond seeking your help for James, two enemies asking you to take up a dangerous endeavor in aid of a third."

"And you still refrain from asking me why I agreed to help a devout enemy, that is, James T. West," Miguel noted. "The child is sound asleep, Docteur, by all means, ask me the question that's been burdening everyone of Mr. West's friends since I came here."

"The child is waking up again," Jacques demurred, looking at Torry who wriggled and rubbed his face and muttered as he woke up.

"Let that question wait for another time, d'accord?"

"D'accord," Miguel nodded, " In any case there is something I must ask you to do before you leave today. The doctors here are worse than useless for such a task and would never attempt it on my request."

"What is that?" Jacques asked.

"Examine Torry's eyes," the smaller doctor answered. "I believe his blindness could be positively affected by surgery. However, not only does such a process require a real hospital with a sterile operating theatre; but we must have other surgeons involved and other physician's considered opinions on the case."

"Surgery you say?" Jacques exclaimed. "We were told the damage to James' eyes was irrevocable! Miguel, as far as being a surgeon my skills were developed on the battlefield in Crimea and here in America. Still I know that anything like the surgery you suggest would incredibly delicate instruments, immense surgical skills, and hours upon hours on the operating table. So I must ask, where in the world would you even attempt such an operation?"

"Oh, well in Zurich, I think or Munich, Vienna, Paris, Madrid, naturally, Prague or Glasgow, even London might do," Miguel answered with a flashing smile.

"I don't suppose the Secret Service budget would stretch quite that far in this case, would it? Even though their best agent was indubitably injured in the line of duty, saving Mr. Grant's life. No, no, we'll take Torry down to my clinic next to Isle d' Tresor, our home just south of the James River in Richmond. What do you think the agency's penny pinchers will say to that idea?"

"It's not the agency's penny pinchers, mon docteur ami, who would refuse an allocation for traveling to Europe." Jacques protested.

"Non, it is those in the Congress, in the Treasury Department's Budgetary Office and in the President's Cabinet. I'm afraid some of those penurious gentlemen would refuse a trip to Richmond as well."

"Then we'll have to apply for funds to Torry's family members, I suppose. As I understand it, they have certain significant holdings around Norfolk, Raleigh, and Chambersburg. All my assets are literally, physically tied up in the house and clinic these days."

"James' family will certainly give any and all support," Jacques agreed. "They went in fear, as we all did for over a year that James had died of his injuries, either abandoned somewhere or still in the hands of those adversaries who abducted both him and Artemus. However Miguel, I should tell you that James' sisters, his cousins, his uncle and his aunt will ask the same question I asked you a moment ago. As absolutely grateful as they are, they will want to know why you've come to his aid now, to the aid of a man who pursued, arrested and jailed you more than once."

"Ah, well, that's an easily answered question in one way. I am simply keeping my sworn word to my sworn enemy, that is, James West. "Miguel said, studying Jacques intently.

Jacques shook his head and then frowned. "Oh, yes, I recollect the time and the place of your promise, your oath to help, non, to save James 'when no one else can'. You had just been sentenced to prison in Sacramento, something on the order of four years ago. I was in the courtroom as well as James and Artemus.

"We heard your oath as did everyone there. So this is all about your own idea of satisfying that promise, Doctor? This is the time, and here is the place you have come to keep your oath. You are here in the hope that James will recover far enough to understand the irony here, to know what you have done for him, non?"

"Non, that is, it is not the whole of my reasoning, not now and not at the time of that trial's end, either. Try to understand what I tell you, Jacques. I ask that you endeavor to believe me now, if you didn't when you, Thomas Macquillan, and Francis Harper came down to Richmond.

"At the end of that trial I was frantic. I was desperate and furiously angry and afraid for my family! I was caught up in pleading for a mistrial

on the basis of my own health and my wife's ... condition. I was arguing conspiracy, entrapment, and harassment at the hands of my adversaries, notably Mr. West.

"We hated each other, he and I. We were polar opposites as far as I could tell and I had already learned a fair amount about him. We were destined to war with one another for life, it seemed. Yet, not long before the trial began, James West saved my life, and far more significant to me, Antoinette's.

We hired a carriage, a team, and a driver. Well the driver was drunken, the team was half starved and the carriage overturned, and worse, was dragged some distance until those miserable horses, who had been miserably abused themselves, found a rushing stream to drink out of.

"The carriage was half in the stream and half out by the time Mr. West caught up to us. He pulled us to safety or we would have drowned, trapped as we were by the weight of the carriage and so forth. The brutally plain fact of the matter was that some lawmen, some other men in general would have let us drown there, Antoinette and myself. Mr. West was already aware that neither she nor I could swim, as you may have heard him telling. He could have made his life and his work easier in a sense that day, much easier. He didn't.

"It was to me at that time, an intolerable, insufferable debt, which I swore to repay. For me to do so Torry must first recover his health and James West must recover himself. That being said, I do not make war on or exact vengeance from helpless children.

"Children have always been my special study, my obsession if you will. My first priority has always been to find or to make a world where children need not be terrified of the big people, the grown folk as Torry puts it. As you've learned, Torry has been terrified, the grown folks around him for have terrorized him over a year, and that's the length of time we know about.

"He's so deeply afraid of the people around him here and of the people who harmed him, Jacques that he can't begin to tell us why. He cannot tell us what was done to him. I have promised Torry, and I promised you and Macquillan that I will stay with Torry and help him as I would any sick child. At first, as you may guess, my idea was to cure James West, and then to lay that cure like burning coals on his head. However, such is no longer the case; and I would be glad to explain what has been added to my motivation in this matter."

"Added? Very well, I will listen, Doctor. What has changed, what ...as you say has been added to your motive for coming here?"

"A small boy," Miguel said, grinning widely. "Another small boy, I should say, besides our Torry. _Mi pequeña joven, mi niño, mi hijo, Micah Diego Enrique Raul de Cervantes."_

"Miguel, you have... Antoinette was... you said my wife's condition at the trial..." Jacques spluttered and stammered for a moment and then grinned almost as widely as the small doctor.

"I have a son," Miguel nodded. "A wonderful, healthy, brilliantly intelligent, healthy, mischievous, handsome, growing, thriving, and by the way, exceptionally healthy three year old son! Antoinette was ...enceinte; but was waiting to tell me... due to past difficulties. So, when I knew my son, my flesh and blood was not only born alive, but that he was sound and well and thriving... as he indeed is... a great many elements of my life changed, a great many. We named him for Antoinette's father, for myself, in part and for ... your friend. Now it only remains to help Torry understand that he has a three year old friend impatiently waiting to meet him in Richmond."

"That's wonderful news, doctor," Jacques said. "I'm chagrinned to say the idea that you might seek to have children of your own..."

"You should be chagrinned, but never mind all that now," Miguel shrugged. "You will detour on your way to Norfolk to meet with Antoinette and have a chance to meet Micah Diego? I'm delighted to say he resembles his mother with her dark hair and finely drawn features. When can you leave?"

Jacques smiled at Miguel's impatience. "I have a small practice that must continue to be looked over in my absence. In two days time at the most I will be on the train for Richmond, my word on that. Now, let me do that examination we spoke of. Torry," Jacques said, turning back to the half awake man-child.

"Torry, I'm Jacques, you remember that I have come visiting you before now with Thomas, non? I want to look at your eyes, Mon enfant. Torry,"

"Miguel?" Torry said, reaching out with his right hand. "Miguel,"

"I'm right here, Torry and I want you to do as Jacques asks; because he only wants to help. He's come here quite often, as he said to visit with you, Torry. You remember Jacques and Ma... and Thomas, don't you, jovencito?"

"Jac," Torry said nodding, "an' quiet Tommy... an' ...ovver peoples... they camed. Did you see Torry's horsy with wheels on, Miguel?"

"Yes, yes I saw it, it's quite marvelous, now turn this way please, Torry." Miguel smiled.

"Eh, bien, Torry," Jacques said. "In a moment, I will help you to open your eyes very wide. I put my hand on your forehead, so, and you open your eyes as wide as you can, non? Torry, can you hold your head quite still now?"

"Guess so, " the child man said and complied as Jacques turned his head towards the inner wall of the room, away from the door.

"Now, Torry, close your eyes un moment and tell me, tell me at once if your eyes hurt when I press on them. Now, Torry..."

"Nun-uh," Torry muttered, already somewhat bored by this grown folks game. "Doesn't hurt, Jac"

"Very well, Torry," Jacques said, "if I turn your head to your right now, do your eyes hurt?"

"Nun," Torry answered making both doctors wonder if he was trying to say non, or none. "Don't hurt now, Jac, just a little maybe."

"Bien, tres bien," Jacques said as quietly as he could to hide his surprise and elation. He was turning the child's head towards the outer wall, where a high window let the midday sun stream in.

"Now, Torry, once more I will turn your head more in the same direction. So, you will tell me..."

"It stings!" Torry cried his face creased with pain, his eyes watering. "It hurts! Miguel!"

"I'm here, Torry, I'm here," de Cervantes answered, once more grasping the child's hand. "Shush now, and turn your head towards me, that's it, that's it, m'ijo."

"J'regret, Mon enfant, j' regret," Jacques said, even while he was grinning at Miguel. There was no doubt that Torry's blind eyes reacted to the daylight. What that could mean for restoring his vision, Jacques suddenly had a thousand questions he would not ask in Torry's hearing.

"Miguel, Miguel, Torry don't like grown folks games! Torry don't like them!" the child complained, pulling closer to the smaller doctor.

"Shush now, Torry," Miguel answered. "Jacques told you it might hurt. It's the light, Torry. It's the wonderful daylight coming in one of the high windows in the wall there. The light coming in is what was stinging your eyes. I was right! Torry, I was right! Those fools, those indifferent, idiotic fools who said you'd stay blind were absolutely wrong!"

WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

SCENE FOUR

THE Rosenburg

STEFAN ANYSLEY'S MANSION

12 MILES NORTH OF BALTIMORE,

FEBRUARY 1872

"Wrong, Marguerite Elise. You are quite wrong," Stefan Aynsley told his niece. "Our inquiries proceed quite well. It is mere impatience that makes time long for you. Science however cannot be hurried to its proper ends. Do you understand that?" Aynsley asked, turning to a rack on the wall to find his light colored, impeccably clean linen laboratory coat. This the researcher put on over a grey silk shirt, brocaded vest, and fine wool trousers.

"I understand, Uncle," Marguerite Elise, usually called Liesl, Branoch, his sister's daughter replied in a miserable tone. "My impatience ruined the last inquiry. Please, Uncle Stefan, forgive me."

"I shall, if you prove your comprehension of that situation by settling back to our endeavors immediately," Aynsley said, allowing his dark eyes to show the girl some satisfaction with her repentance. Liesl was an extremely sensitive girl of seventeen, high strung as a thorough bred mare. Her extreme reactions to his slightest word or mood were disquieting to the researcher's ordered mind. Thus he avoided his ward whenever possible, lest his frown crush her vibrant spirit, or a taut smile from him dizzy her with joy.

Aynsley, whose work as a physician, a surgeon and a researcher had taken him from Amsterdam to Bucharest and from Glasgow and Moscow, into the Crimea and from there to Munich and Vienna had no use and no time for emotionalism. His whole life had been taken up for the past twenty years with the idea that men's living memories could be temporarily or permanently altered, so that their subsequent motives and deeds could be both radically altered and sternly controlled.

In Europe, before serving as a field surgeon in the Crimea, Stefan Aynsley studied surgical techniques that were constantly advancing and improving. He made a separate study of ophthalmology, and the processes and diseases of the eye, after watching his father, an ingenious watchmaker lose his livelihood and his peace of mind to blindness. He turned his attention to nervous conditions and illnesses while observing that young men seemed to suffer the debilitating and sometimes deadly effects of these invisible diseases more than their elders do.

While studying in Moscow, Aynsley agreed to serve as a surgeon in the Crimea. There, his researches into the nervous illnesses of young men proved all the more apt. In that place of war, sickness and death were largely restricted to another generation of young European men. Aynsley began to look for means by which the mental, if not the physical suffering of his patients could be affected. At wars' end, Aynsley was sure of his new discoveries and methods, and came to the New World at the urgent request of his sister, who'd immigrated years ago to Atlanta, Georgia.

The Conflict, as the Southerner he met called it, was crushing their spirits, destroying their lands and decimating two generations of their husbands, fathers, and sons. The Yankees seemed to have inexhaustible numbers to fight the dwindling troops of the South and endless supplies to support them. The only real insufficiency of the Unionist cause seemed to be among their military leaders; and even there, the tide was turning.

During the later part of the third and most of the fourth year of the War, Aynsley worked with a party of Southerners who were concocting one desperate scheme after another to slow the Yankee tide. When Atlanta fell and Liesl's family died in the evacuation camps there, Aynsley took the girl in and went on with his researches, intending the destruction of the persons he held most responsible for destroying his niece and the rest of his family. At the end of that Conflict, Aynsley was more determined than ever to send a Courier to his enemies with one and only one fatal dispatch.

"What shall we do, Uncle?" Liesl demanded all excitement again.

"First, restrain your needless, harmful emotionalism. A scientist is empirically detached from his work, Niece, not embroiled in it to the point of obsession. A scientist shows his passion only in a genteel fashion; and then it is for Truth, for Empiricism, and for the advancement of Knowledge.

" I should not need to tell you after what happened here recently how absolutely, dangerously vulnerable our subjects are to volatile emotional displays. Such behavior is both unscientific and unladylike. You are learning to be a scientist, Liesl; and you are becoming a young woman. You must not behave like a hoydenish schoolgirl any longer."

"No, Uncle Stefan," Liesl replied, her dark eyes downcast, her pale face half hidden by the fiery cloud of her silken, coppery hair.

"Send for our new subject, then, niece. Do not let me hear you speak out of turn. We are once more at a crucial stage of an inquiry with this subject. He has been here over a month's time. He has shown a surprising capacity for the memory work that is; for a poorly educated person; and he is far healthier by comparison to the physical and nervous conditions of previous subjects. Here we will fail once more, or finally succeed. I require you to observe what I do and say now Liesl, and nothing more."

Liesl nodded and left the laboratory in Aynsley's Italianate mansion. Aynsley stood brooding over his clenched hands while he waited. Today, as always Liesl dressed in deep mourning. For six years, she had mourned the loss of her parents and siblings in the bombardment of Atlanta. All her strength since that time went into hate filled plots, small or grandiose for her revenge.

Liesl was a lovely, fragile girl with the mark of her aristocratic heritage, Aynsley thought, stamped on her long, pale features. She was refined and exquisite, with a brilliant mind and a lively spirit to match any of the current generation of European countesses, princesses, or empresses. Still the turmoil of the late war lived in her spirit like a winter hurricane off the eastern seaboard. In Liesl's wide, brown eyes an unreasoning rage never wholly died. After suffering war, loss, defeat and humiliation Marguerite Elise 'Liesl' Branoch was no longer a girl and no longer quite sane.

So far this month, seven subjects for the empirical inquiries Aynsley was making had come to his mansion, which Liesl dubbed The Rosenburg, for a Renaissance era castle recently rebuilt in Austria. Of those seven, only five made their way to Aynsley's laboratory in what had been the attic. All these men were Confederate veterans whose fortunes were nearly as low these days as their former battle flags.

Three of the seven were quickly dismissed from Aynsley's inquiries, their health, and their habits made the work he had in mind next to impossible. As he had with over two hundred other such men in the past five years, Aynsley sent away subjects #414 and #415, the hopeless drunkards, despite their being among the youngest subjects, and #416, the slightly older veteran who could not control 'the terrors' as he called his paralyzing moments of relived war memories when the conflict was mentioned.

Fourth and fifth of this month's subjects were as different as sunlight and moonlight. Subject Number 417, seemed somewhat promising to the researcher, an intelligent, soft spoken, even tranquil, well-mannered man in his late twenties. He claimed to be a bereft young father and widower with no ties and no commitments to the present. Tall and rangy, with spectacles worn over clear brown eyes and light brown hair receding a bit from his high forehead, this subject was eventually rejected out of hand by one of Stefan's backers, when it became apparent he was of the Hebrew race. His memory, like those of the other men so dismissed was tampered with so that this 'Israelite' could not speak of his time at The Rosenburg ever.

The fifth subject, #418 appeared to be in his forties, a tall, broad shouldered street beggar, with thick, coarse grizzled black hair, strong, classical features, a booming voice, dark, flowing mustaches, heavy eyebrows and brooding dark eyes that made Liesl and her companion Cecily Breckinridge dub him 'Mr. Rochester' for Jane Eyre's antihero. Like Bronte's character at the end of the novel, this fellow bore the scars of many and various battles and not all of them on the fields of war. His overall health however seemed good enough for the endeavor and his memory among the best of all Aynsley's subjects so far.

He claimed to be one of the profoundly shamed and hated veterans of the Eighteenth North Carolina Infantry, and reeled off a mournful litany of times and places he'd been 'kicked out, kicked around, and generally driven away from'. His own company had been the Wilmington Rifle Guards, designated Company I. He could easily recite any list or memorandum, company roster including the names and hometowns of a great many of its Cape Fear-Wilmington area recruits, or the order of battle at diverse times for that regiment.

"Name of Granville Montrose Redrick Arlen, Third Lieutenant, Company I, Eighteenth North Carolina Infantry, suh," this sometimes-boisterous seeming former soldier answered when questioned by Aynsley. "Folks mostly call me Grandy, or sometimes Montry, suh."

"Company I, the whole Eighteenth, suh, we was Colonel Barry's regiment, General James H. Lane's Brigade, A.P. Hill's Division, Second Corps, under General Thomas Jonathan, that is, Stonewall Jackson, suh."

"Where did you engage the enemy during the Conflict, Lieutenant Arlen?" Aynsley asked, studying the man in a threadbare but not ragged field jacket and trousers showing the faded markers of the rank he claimed.

"Well, suh, we was at Hanover Court House to start with. We went on through the Seven Days then to Cedar Mountain where we lost fourteen fine boys. From there, we were at Second Manassas, then up at Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg, and that next summer at Chancellorsville, suh. Then, suh, well a course, everybody knows..." Arlen stopped, hunching his shoulders, and shifting his weight from one foot to the other as if he wished to be anywhere else, talking about anything but what happened after Chancellorsville.

"Yes, Lieutenant, I understand, that will do for now. We do not need to discuss your military service any further," Aynsley said, but in a challenging tone meant to test the potential subject."

The challenge worked, his dark eyes sparking for the first time in their discussions, the former soldier frowned and shook his head.

"You'll pardon me, suh, you'll pardon me, I hope now; but I won't disparage the old 18th for nothin' or nobody, suh! Those boys! Those boys, suh were the finest ... some of the finest in the whole, entire Army of Northern Virginia, suh! They did the best soldiering any man in that army ever did!

"They were recognized as some of the finest, strongest, bravest boys in Jackson's Foot Cavalry as we called it in those times, suh! They...we went through the Valley campaign and bamboozled them Yankees every which way doin' it, suh! I'll tell you what we always said, suh, back in the old 18th, suh, if it hadn't been for that blamed moon that night, suh, ... a fellow couldn't tell if the man next to him wore Yankee blue or butternut grey, suh, much less yards away! **** You'll pardon me, suh; but if you don't want me for this here job of work whatever it may be, suh, if you don't want me or any other boy from the old 18th... "

"I never said that, Lieutenant Arlen, did I." Aynsley asked, as calmly as if he was enquiring about the weather down around Cape Fear.

"What? Oh, uh, no, suh, no, no, reckon you didn't say that, suh. I must apologize..."

"No, no, certainly not," Aynsley shook his head. "Such things are not necessary between gentlemen, Lieutenant, don't you believe so?"

The dark haired man who was watching Aynsley just as intently as the researcher watched him gave a cautious little shrug and shook his head, plainly laughing at himself.

"Suh, there ain't no way you could compare old Grandy here to no gentlemen, suh. I only got the name, suh that sounds kinda fancy-folk like, suh, because it was my great granddaddy Arlen's name, suh. Seems like the way the family tells it, great-granddaddy got himself what they used to call it...

a patronage, suh? Then he come over to the Carolinas, and made his way. That's all."

"I understand, Lieutenant," Aynsley said. The researcher was about to go on with this third interview when someone rapped impatiently several times on the door to his attic study. Irritated and frowning, Aynsley excused himself and left the study for a moment.

Granville Arlen, more often known as Artemus Gordon tried to listen to the conversation that went on in the opposite hallway, and could only make out that it was an angry exchange, swiftly escalating into a quarrel.

Abruptly, the pair of redheaded girls 'Arlen' had seen only once before during his 'stay' at the Rosenburg, entered the study and smiled at him. Both were frail looking and pale, one with sandy-red curls pinned up and floating down her back, the other with coppery auburn hair held back with an ebony clasp. The first girl was taller, grey eyed and dressed fashionably, if in somber mauve and grey. The second girl wore plainer clothes, somewhat out of date in comparison, in deep black without any relief at hems or cuffs. Normally that meant she was in the first two years of mourning. Arlen could see that the first girl thought herself a charmer as she all but flirted with 'the lieutenant from Wilmington'. The second girl hung back but studied Arlen intently with restless wide, dark eyes that took over half her face.

"Good mornin', ladies," Arlen said, offering a slight bow. Both girls giggled at that, but said nothing; instead they looked towards the door of the study anxiously. They didn't want to be heard in here, Arlen guessed.

"You're looking quite well and if you will pardon my saying so, quite lovely, this mornin'." the former soldier added.

More giggles ensued but now the second girl shook her head and started to usher the first girl out, like a duenna with a senorita.

" Liesl, wait!" the first girl protested. "Where are your manners? It's rude to leave the Lieutenant here unattended. Surely Stefan would want someone to keep the Lieutenant ...company while he's busy talking to Gid..."

"Hush, Cecily!" the second girl ordered. " Where are your manners now? You mustn't call Uncle by his given name in that way! You certainly mustn't stand here staring at a stranger; and you mustn't talk about Uncle's business associates ever!

"You must excuse her, Lieutenant Arlen," the first girl said turning towards the dark haired man. "She sometimes forgets all the etiquette our governess labors to impress upon both of us. It's not her fault, truly, she only recently began a proper ladies' education,"

"Liesl Marguerite!" the first girl exclaimed. "You mustn't reveal such personal matters to a stranger, not even a well mannered, genteel, handsome stranger such as Lieutenant Arlen. Please, excuse us, Lieutenant, we have our German lessons now, and they're so difficult for me, as opposed to Liesl, who grew up speaking it. Her mother, you see was from Vien..."

"Cecily Ariadne!" the second girl protested. "You are being far too familiar with the Lieutenant! We will leave you to wait for Uncle now, Lieutenant; and I hope you will excuse ...our behavior."

"There's nothing to excuse, Miss," Arlen stated, with another half-bow. "Nothin' whatever, I assure you."

The girls filed out of the study by a side door, and Arlen went over in his mind the few things they'd let slip. Liesl had some authority over Cecily, it seemed, but both girls were afraid of Aynsley. Cecily acted older than her companion, but did not tell Liesl what to do with any success. Liesl's family came from Vienna, which meant Aynsley might as well. Then there was the unseen associate whose name began with 'Gid'. As usual, Arlen stored this information away to ponder and compare to other puzzle pieces later. He wasn't given the time for that pondering though.

When Aynsley returned, looking a little flushed with anger, he began what he called memory work with Lieutenant Arlen. If anything, the researcher's manner was colder and less patient than before. He seemed to be testing Arlen's capacity to memorize speeches and cues, which would have made Arlen laugh in other circumstances. The purpose of that work was never explained to Arlen. The details changed over his nine days at the Rosenburg. What he'd been made to learn and made to forget in that time were things Artemus Gordon could not recollect for well over a year.

The sixth subject this winter remained under Aynsley's tutelage and observation twice as long as 'Arlen', causing Liesl to build wild hopes that he would be the tool of her revenge. Instead, Liesl's interference at a crucial point drove this Cape Fear born former artilleryman into a suicidal depression. Dying by his own hand, with the agency of a shard of glass, the man babbled childishly of sailboats on Wilmington's harbor, scuppernong grapes, and snipe hunts in the swamps. Lounging against the frame of an iron cot, this sturdily built, blue eyed, dark haired man no longer seemed to realize he was bleeding to death. Instead, he smiled at the light in Liesl's great, dark eyes. He had been the living tool of great hatreds and fears, issuing death and destruction; now he would die free.

The seventh subject came to Aynsley's surgery and then to his cellars less than a week after the Wilmington native died. Liesl would have rejected this candidate at once, because he was totally blind. Aynsley and his backers had other ideas. This subject was apparently in his late twenties, and had served in Lee's Army of Northern Virginia until he was blinded at the Wilderness.

His fire-scarred green eyes perceived no light whatever, even on the highest or lowest spectrums. His wiry frame was often wracked with bronchial infections. Other than that, this subject was adequately whole and sound, Aynsley judged. To the researcher this man's blindness presented new possibilities for the endeavor, new challenges Aynsley was glad to have after four years of failures.

Warily, Aynsley observed and tested this subject for fourteen days before bringing him from the cellar of the Rosenburg to its attic. He set the blind man tasks, lists, and paths through the cellar to memorize. He challenged the man's memories of the war, of his regiment and comrades, and of his new training at every point. Then for a week Aynsley kept this new subject isolated and under constant watch. Only when the researcher saw that as he wished his subject was growing restless, edgy, impatient, and wary as any caged creature would, did Aynsley instruct Liesl to bring the blind beggar to his laboratory.

"You may leave us," Aynsley told the girl, his glance forbidding protest.

"Yes, Uncle," Liesly murmured unhappily, closed the door behind her and leaned against it, eavesdropping without the least compunction.

Stefan Aynsley turned to study his subject. The man stood tautly, as if he hardly dared move. His sharp features were sharper still with nervous energy, and his dark chestnut hair seemed ready to jump from its scalp if something didn't happen soon to stop it. He wore the uniform of an Army of Northern Virginia sergeant, so Aynsley addressed him as such.

"This is my laboratory, Sergeant. There are a great many expensive, even irreplaceable glass beakers and vials as well as many delicate instruments here. They are on laboratory tables to your right and behind you. There is also a wooden bench three steps to your left beside the door you just now entered. Go to it now and sit down."

"Yes, suh," James West replied, in the guise of a Norfolk neighbor killed in the War, one Travis Madsen. Worn down a bit and wary, West forced himself to keep his blind stare away from the man who spoke to him. Despite a grey streaked Van dyke beard, Stephen Aynsley bore an astonishing resemblance to the late Stephen Deniol Mihangel West. The elder West had been a powerfully shouldered, dark haired, dark-eyed Pennsylvania born doctor whose third son James inherited his chiseled features and stubborn chin. Aynsley's eyes seemed a bit wider though, more like Artemus Gordon's.

West's wariness was real. The slightest wrong move now would betray his charade. His cobalt blue glasses had been taken away days ago; and his nerves were taut with waiting. Extending his arms stiffly forward, the agent turned and stepped once, twice and fell headlong, colliding with a low table.

Swearing vigorously, West flailed at the table, the wall beside him, and the floor.

"How long have you been blind, Sergeant?" Aynsley asked, helping the blind man to his feet, although he'd already been given the sergeant's tale of woe.

"What's that to ya?" West as Madsen demanded.

"A very great deal, since it will tell me how far I need to go in restoring your sight, Sergeant. So, how long..." Aynsley began again.

"Restorin' mah," the blind man exclaimed. "What th' devil d'ya mean by that?"

"That I believe it is possible to restore your sight, Sergeant Madsen, just as I said. Will you answer my question now?"

"Uh... yes, suh," The sergeant nodded. "I ...I was blinded at the Wilderness, suh. Fed'ral artillery was shellin' us somethin' fierce and we was giving as good as we got, long as we could. Then the whole place went up..." West replied, vividly recollecting fires rampaging through the twisted undergrowth of the Wilderness, set off largely by one army's cannon barrage or another.

"That was eight years ago. Did you have full vision until that time, Sergeant Madsen?"

"Yes, suh, yes, suh, I saw alright then... That Miz Nan, though suh, That Miz Nan what brought me out here, she didn't say nothing about nobody mendin' my eyes!"

"What did she say to you, exactly?" Aynsley asked.

"Suh, she tol me I was to have victuals and a new coat, or a warm one, anyhow, some boots and a warm place to keep myself at, to sleep anyhow, for the winter, maybe. She said I was to have that, suh, if I was ... if I done what some fella called Stefin tol me.

"So, here I come, suh, and I ain't heard nobody talkin about what I was to do, cept walk around some little rooms and carry this or that around with me... an' I ain't heard tell of that Stefin fella in all this while! An' that Miz Nan, suh, she never tol me how I was to find this here Stefin fella, neither, bein' as how I'm blind as a pile of rocks, suh." West said, thinking of the Washington street walker who, along with some friends had shown an inordinate interest in a blind beggar. She must have been genuinely pretty once, West considered, but couldn't break his cover to say so.

"I am Stefan Aynsley, Sergeant," the researcher announced. "With your cooperation, Sergeant Madsen, I can do far more than fill your belly and cover your back. I can make you a focus of History, and of Science, Sergeant Madsen; also, at a later time, as your more than justified reward, I can restore your sight."

West froze where he stood. There was no doubt Aynsley's boasted cure for blindness meant surgery; and even attempting such a thing would disclose the agent's fraud, and likely kill him outright. The beggar West counterfeited now, a younger neighbor from Norfolk, Travis Barrett Madsen, had no way of understanding that.

"Nope, nope, Doc. Nope, nope, ain't doin' that! Y'all must be crazed!" West exclaimed in character. "Y'all can't do that! Nobody can! Them docs at the field hospital, they didn't even send me to th' receivin' hospital in Richmond back then! Them docs tol me they couldn't do nothin'; an' y'all ain't no doc!"

"I am Herr Professor Doctor Stefan Johannes Aynsley. I have my medical and post graduate medical and research degrees from the Universities of Zurich, of Munich, of Madrid, and St. Andrews in Glasgow." Aynsley replied. "I am more of a physician than the barbarians you unfortunately encountered during the Conflict. Also, I have studied the various elements of the eye and it's structure in more detail than any one practicing medicine on this beleaguered continent at present!

"Depending on the condition of your eyes at this stage, Sergeant Madsen, I can remove scar tissue, which might also be called cataracts. That would restore your vision quite easily in fact. I can microscopically examine the rods and cones that capture light and color within your eyes to determine their present acuity. I can establish the current status of your corneas, Sergeant and I can, if your health continues to be fairly vigorous over time, replace those damaged tissues with healthy ones. Best it would be tissue from someone closely related to you, naturally enough, yet..."

West listened to Aynsley's boasting with growing unease. The man didn't sound insane, only his suggestions for curing traumatic blindness did. Just how would he go about examining another man's eyes under a microscope? How big a microscope would be needed for that? What informed the older man's voice that worried West more than his impossible medical notions was the cold anger in Aynsley's tone. Why was this Herr Professor suddenly angry with Travis Madsen? What was going wrong here?

"Them docs... suh, them docs, Doctuh, suh, they tol me mah eyes was ruint, just plumb ruint. They tol me nothing an' nobody could ever... ever fix 'em up to see again." West protested in character, trying to judge by the older man's tone and his footsteps instead of his expression and his posture what Aynsley was thinking.

"They were wrong, Sergeant; they were not given the opportunities of education that I was. Apologies, I have alarmed you unduly. You do not know, as yet why you are here, do you?"

"No, suh," West answered in a suitably cowed tone.

"Then I shall tell you precisely what it is you are to do for me. Sergeant Madsen, you are to become a courier-extraordinary for our endeavors here. You are to deliver an extremely crucial message to a most particular personage."

"A courier, suh?" the agent in disguise asked. "I'm blind, suh...y'all said ya could mend up mah eyes after; but..."

"Being blind for the present, Sergeant, you seem the least likely choice, that is so," Aynsley agreed.

"Except that your retaining such an unfortunate condition for the present is precisely the point of the exercise. You will be considered harmless, a person to be treated kindly by those who might otherwise stop such a mission. You will not be harassed, questioned, or suspected in the least. Indeed, you will be the perfect courier."

"Oh, uh, yes, suh," West muttered. "Figure I don't entirely understand, suh."

"You needn't understand entirely, Sergeant," Aynsley replied. "You have already begun to learn what you must in order to carry out your mission. I also have begun to learn what I must, in order to ensure our success. You have begun to memorize a few small tasks, all of them closely related to the courier's duties to come. You show a quick, highly retentive memory, which again is precisely what this endeavor calls for; but I digress.

"What you must learn by rote is to function within certain severe limitations, as well as a sighted man.

As a sighted man, you will deliver the message I will teach you. You will then revert to your present state, that of a blind man in strange surroundings. Thus, no one will take note of your entry or your departure. No one will consider that the courier and the blind man are or could possibly be the same man. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, suh," West said, cold with the fear Aynsley's icy calm roused in him. This doctor meant to actively manipulate the beggar he saw in James West. Doing that, he would somehow meddle with the agent's mind, motives, and memory.

_This Aynsley has to be the one who fuddled Artie so badly he lost nine days' worth of memories. _West thought._ Only now, he wants to try it out on me; and I still don't know why 'precisely'. _

Doctuh, that Miz Nan, she did say... she said somethin' else to me."

"What was that, Sergeant?"

_Why does he keep harping on calling me Sergeant?_ Jim wondered, uneasy with the laundry list of reasons he could imagine as the answer.

"Suh, she said if I done what Stefin, what you tol me, I'd be some kinda genuine Confed'rit hero. She never did say how that could be, though."

"Nor should she have said anything of the kind," Aynsley growled.

"I do not intend to discuss that element of the endeavor at this early stage. You will be given to understand all you must later on, Sergeant. The Confederacy no longer exists. Therefore, there can be no heroes for that extinguished nation. There are, however thousands of war veterans, widows and orphans throughout the South, who..."

"Who require retribution for their loss!" Liesl cried bursting into the laboratory, shaking, wild-eyed and bright faced with rage.

"Marguerite Elise!" Stefan cried, angered and alarmed by her blatant eavesdropping.

"Uncle, you must tell him!" the woman-child insisted. "He will be a true hero, a cause célèbre, a glorious, noble, revered figure for generations! He will be the greatest of Southern heroes after Lee, Jackson, and Stuart! To all those thousands of mourners, of ruined families, of broken lives he will bring final vengeance on..."

"Liesl, be still!" Aynsley commanded. "He has not been prepared for this. He has hardly begun the least memory work. Your disobedience ruined the last inquiry, "

Ignoring her uncle's warning, Liesl went on. "...On the Butcher, Ulysses Simpson Grant! I will lead the courier to him. Sergeant, I will willingly lead you to him. Then, when he puts himself into our hands, I will see you exact our revenge! You will be the Southron Achilles! You will destroy our great enemy, the chief warrior of Troy!

We will destroy Hector that is the Butcher Grant for his evil works and his cruelty to the Southron people! We will take from him what he took from us: life, honor, and glory! We cannot wait on trifles! Without question he will come into our hands and we will see the Day of Vengeance!"

"Marguerite Elise, I have forbidden that notion," Stefan shouted.

West stood frozen in silence. He dared not move his eyes or his head. He could not trust his voice to respond to this mad girl. The tension in the room was slowly working its way into West's neck, shoulders, and back. Aynsley however barely noted his presence.

"Liesl, you will not participate any further in this matter. This subject is not even minimally prepared for his role. I insist, I insist, niece that you recall the unfortunate failure of the last inquiry, due to your irresponsible intervention. Do you recall it?"

Liesl's pale face crumpled childishly, even her fiery hair seemed to lose color. Her uncle's disapproval crushed her, at least long enough to serve as a stern discipline. Horror filled her dark eyes as she recalled the last subject's fate.

"Yes, uncle," she said in a small voice.

"What happened in that case, Liesl?"

"Uncle, Uncle, he became ... the subject, the brave, bright ... boy from Charleston, Uncle...He became extremely agitated, when I explained to him... When I interfered with the inquiry. He became irrational." Liesl answered, not moving or looking up herself.

"And then, Marguerite Elise, what did the subject do?" Aynsley prodded.

"He ... took his ... took his own life, Uncle," Liesl admitted. "He found an old bottle and broke it, Uncle and."

"Took his own life," Aynsley repeated. "Yes. Niece, I will not allow any further disruption of my work here. Go to your room at once, my girl and stay there until I call you."

"Yes, Uncle," the girl whispered and ran from the room.

When the door slammed behind her and her footsteps faded away on the landing beyond the door, West swallowed hard and found his voice again.

"Suh, suh, y'all want me t' kill Ulysses Grant, suh?" he asked, avoiding at all costs Aynsley's cold gaze.

"No, I do not," the researcher answered. "My niece saw her home and her family destroyed during the siege and civilian evacuation of Atlanta. She was then eleven years of age. She has not and I fear she will not recover from those losses. She thinks only of vengeance on enemies she cannot possibly reach. I ...think in terms of justice.

"President Grant is presently allowing an injustice, a profound injustice to continue. He is allowing a course of Northern vengeance, which the Congress labels Reconstruction to persist unchecked. I am only one of many persons who hope the President can be rationally persuaded to alleviate the persecution of former Confederates. That is the gist of the message we have already sent Mr. Grant on several occasions, without receiving any response."

West listened in silence, his thoughts boiling. A subject as Aynsley put it, a subject of his endeavor here killed himself. Fear and revulsion at the idea knotted in Jim's stomach.

"You are to deliver that same message in person, Sergeant. You will first absorb the precise form and meaning of that petition. I will impress our intentions on your memory so that Ulysses Grant hears exactly what we wish him to hear.

"Our hope is that Grant will choose to respond to this method of receiving our petition as he has not done to others. In that sense and only in that sense will you become a hero to the Southern cause; the only cause that remains, that of the living, the suffering." Aynsley sighed.

"It is neither glory nor revenge we hope to achieve. You will merely carry our message to Grant and we will know the man himself has heard it. That is an accomplishment in itself, one would say. Do you understand what I've told you?"

"No, no, suh," West muttered. "That is, I understand you want me to learn and carry that message t' Grant. Only you ain't said what I'm to do if he won't hear it. I ain't a coward and I ain't no friend t' no Yankee President. Only that lady, that young lady ... seems like she wants ... seems like she thinks I'm to kill... old Grant."

"I told you, she is not responsible for her words." Aynsley replied coldly. "Vengeance is not my object, only justice. Liesl Marguerite has never understood that. If her inheritance had been stolen under some legal fiction, she would have the means to attempt the restoration of her ...understanding.

"Exactly such restitution is all I seek for Liesl and the war's other victims. No one need die to accomplish it, if those in power prove themselves men of reason. The President himself has famously said 'Let Us Have Peace'. That is my goal as well, peace for Liesl and my sister's family, peace for the South and for the war's survivors everywhere.

"Death, as a final consequence of this inquiry is and must be a measure of extreme last resort. Still, I was raised to believe that, among other Jesuitical truisms, the ends justify the means. Therefore, I will accept whatever means become necessary to reach the en I seek. I know you understand what I've just said. Surely that philosophy is basic to your own line of endeavor, is it not?"

"Suh?"

"Indeed it must be," Aynsley went on in a tone as cold as new steel. "I should say that you believe the means of degrading yourself in the guise of an indigent street beggar are justified. If you did not believe those means are wholly justified by the end of finding my surgery and my plans, you would not be here now, would you, Mr. West?"

"Doctuh," West bluffed, swallowing hard. "Is somebody else here, suh? Who's that yore callin' West?"

"You, my fine, blind hero!" Aynsley shouted. "Your accomplice was here weeks ago and departed rather precipitously. I have lived in the expectation that one or more of his prying Yankee colleagues would take his place here; and here you are!"

"Doctuh," the agent took more try at the lost game.

"Enough! I tire of the charade. You know the message to be delivered now, Sir. You shall carry it! President Grant shall indeed accept our message from you, James Kiernan Torrance West, as he would accept it from no one else! Our message will reach its proper destination and our plans will reach their proper ends, justice for our beleaguered Southron people; unlike this message and your plans, West!"

Before West's startled gaze, Aynsley thrust a dead homing pigeon, a capsule, and a crumpled note. The bird's neck was broken and the tin capsule breached. The coded message was signed JKTW.

"You will be my _courrier extraordinaire_, Mr. West." Aynsley coldly promised the agent. "You will engrave my message on your mind and give it faithfully to Ulysses Grant. You shall indeed believe then, if you do not now, that such an end justifies whatever means one must take." Now the researcher glanced over his shoulder into the shadowed area of the laboratory and his study.

" Lucien Jeremiel," Aynsley called out, " in accordance with our more recent agreement, the courier you insisted on is here. Be good enough to step into the laboratory proper now, sir, and bring your companions."

From behind Aynsley to his right, from the open door of his study, five men walked into the lighted part of the long room. Two were heavy-set, hard-featured fellows with muscular arms, and legs, broad shoulders and thick necks. Two more of this group were youngsters, West thought, between fourteen and nineteen, with bored expressions, finely tailored suits and almost identically fair coloring. Between them all walked a man closer to Aynsley in apparent age, but taller, better dressed, with a heavy face, high cheekbones, strong shoulders, long arms and legs and thick silver grey hair.

West glanced at the pair of companion thugs and then unwillingly stared at the man walking between them. This man seemed to ignore the agent at first, shooting an angry glance at Aynsley for some reason. Then he stepped within a yard of Jim West and the younger man bit back a startled exclamation.

"Good morning, Torry," this grey haired, black eyed older man said in a quiet, middle-Georgia accent flavored with the music of his birthplace, Port au Prince, Haiti.

"You're not looking very well, or very happy to see me, this morning. Haven't you missed your good old Remy in the least, Torry, my dear boy?"

"I'm not your boy or anyone else's, Remy," Jim answered frowning. "I never was, no matter what you may think; and I'm pretty sure I made that plain to you right around my twelfth birthday, didn't I, Remy? Seems to me, I knocked you flat on your backside around that time and you finally backed off! For starters what that means is you don't get to call me Torry. Nobody gets to do that who isn't part of my family, Remy, and the last time I checked, you're not."

The grey haired man, Lucien Jeremiel de Villefort Beauvais, laughed, the sound cold enough as always, Jim thought, to freeze a prairie fire. "Torry, Torry, how you've learned to exaggerate since you were a small boy! Of course, I'm a part of your family. Your namesake, our dearest old Jaimey married my dearest sister Alexandrine Genevieve, didn't he?"

"You've hated Jaimey so long now, Remy I wonder if you even remember whatever trumped up reason you invented. " Jim answered, feeling angry, chagrinned and trapped, inwardly cussing himself out for not taking off out of this place the second Aynsley revealed the failure of 'Sergeant Madsen'.

"As for Queen Alix, I guess she just had the bad luck to have the same father as you, Remy, that's all," "Luckily for her, I've always thought, she didn't get stuck with the same mother. Isn't that why Lady Helene hated so much, Remy? Isn't it that your Daddy left Lady Helene for Alix' mother, and never looked back?"

"Insolent child, be silent!" Beauvais roared, striking West in the face with a riding crop. "You and your blood have no right to speak the name of my lady mother; therefore, you will never do so. Is that now, can that now be perfectly understood at long last?"

"Perfectly," Jim replied, ignoring the cut on one side of his mouth. "In any case, Remy, we should be talking about mending your manners here, not mine. I was just about to tell the Herr Professor Doctor here what he could do with his messages and his plans from here on out. I won't be any part of a nest of traitors, except to clean it out, as my duty demands."

Now the agent turned back to face Aynsley directly, ignoring Beauvais and his four companions, even while the heavier, more dangerous looking ones walked around and behind him.

_Remy hates being ignored more than anything, so I'll be glad to oblige him. If his thugs want a fight now,_ _they'll get one_, West decided.

_I may not be absolutely up to par; but these two old men and those two boys standing with Remy don't pose any problem at all, which leaves me with only thug a and thug b to wrestle. _

" As I was just going to say, Herr Professor Doctor, before you can use me against President Grant you'll have to break my neck," Jim said defiantly. " Your message is a lie, a ruse to get someone you control close enough to assassinate the President the moment he rightly rejects your supposed petition. That's never going to happen.

"Stopping that is the reason I came here, once my partners and I figured out the motive for kidnapping, torturing and murdering so many former Confederates. You wanted a man who would be, you hoped, predisposed to attack the President. "Only that idea shows how little you understand them or any other soldier once a war is over.

The last thing, the very last thing a soldier wants when a battle, or a campaign or a war is over is another fight. He only wants to go home and hold onto his folks or his wife, or his kids, or his brothers and sisters and cousins. That's all. So, you've already taken the wrongest tact you could have with these plans. You might as well give them all up right now."

"No, Mr. West," Aynsley answered, "No, we are by no means whatever giving up our endeavor. With your arrival here, you sealed the plan just as we expected you to do, once Mr. Gordon had returned to his friends in Washington. Hold his arms now, gentlemen, if you please," Aynsley said and instead of the burly pair of thugs, the fair-haired boys seized the agent's arms and held them back on either side.

The researcher now waved an open vial before West's angry face. Pungent yellow fumes burned and clouded West's eyes, then filled his throat and his lungs. Breathing in pain, losing consciousness, West collapsed before he could think or move. Numb and leaden he could not lift his head from the floor. He still could hear Aynsley's calm, reasonable tones and make out some of what the researcher was saying.

"I am glad to see you prove a quick study, West. I was right about your retentive memory and your intellectual prowess; both of which are in a finer, stronger condition than you would have most people guess. Do not struggle now. It will only make the gas work that much more quickly. Lie quite still. We have much work ahead and you must rest, before we begin in earnest."

wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww

**** Recent studies show that the vector of the rising moon on the night of May 2cnd, 1863 obscured rather than illuminated the woods around Chancellorsville, and the men riding towards the Confederate lines. With the obscuring forest of the Wilderness around them, where even full daylight could not penetrate to the ground according to some contemporaries, only a handful of the Confederates on Lee's right flank could have seen the approaching riders at all. With the shadows and the dense woods, those riders would only be seen as silhouettes. General Thomas Jonathan Jackson would not have been recognizable as a Confederate, much less as the Second Corps Commander. He was shot three times in his left arm, which was soon amputated. Jackson died eight days later of pneumonia, likely due to infection from that amputation.

WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

SCENE FIVE

WASHINGTON DC

NEW JERSEY STREET STATION,

BALTIMORE AND OHIO RAILROAD DEPOT,

THE WANDERER,

FEBRUARY 1874

"In earnest?" Artemus Gordon, Ned Brown, and Jeremy Pike angrily chorused. Gordon fell silent, and walked away, a look of disgust and outrage marring his features. Brown folded his arms and stood glaring. Pike on the other hand took up the team discussion they were having with Jacques D'eglisier, Frank Harper, and Thomas Macquillan.

"In earnest?" Jeremy repeated stiffly. "That little madman doesn't know the meaning of the words!"

"I think Jere and Artemus are right this time," Brown put in, his always-ruddy face bright with anger. "To trust Jim in the hands of Miguelito Loveless when Jim's hale and hearty that's one thing. He's come away from those contests mostly unscathed a dozen times by now."

"Ned's right," Jeremy put in. "I'm right, and Artemus is right, friends. When Jim is up to par as usual, nobody has to worry about whom he's up against. Nobody; but now, right now and for the past year and more Jim has been sick as a bedbug, half starved, and blind, not to mention stuck in that damnable asylum."

"Tell us something we don't know, please, gentlemen," Thomas Macquillan, the team's soft spoken leader and mentor, a Bostonian lawyer with a natural boxer's frame, a impassive disposition, sandy, thinning red hair, deep set hazel eyes and rugged features.

"Because you're all three of you about as wrong as you could be about this. Also, counting James Richmond, the Secretary of the Treasury, the Director of the Service, the President, Jacques, Frank, Ori Hoynes, me and Jim's sisters, his aunts, his uncles, and his cousins, you're considerably outnumbered on this one. You know that's true if you have even the slightest idea of how many cousins he has.

"Also, if the next thing one of you is going to say that we gave no thought at all to this particular decision, gentlemen, you're even more wrong. We talked ourselves blue in the face, talked ourselves hoarse, thought and even Frank here I think did some praying on it. No offense, Frank,"

"None taken. I'm not much of a churchgoer; but to make this decision you three are still quarreling with, yes, I put my knees on the ground and talked to the Almighty, instead of talking to you three wise men!" Frank growled in his turn.

"We weren't here!" the chorus came again, leaving everyone in the varnish car a bit chagrinned.

"No, you weren't here. You were all working on cases that couldn't be put off any longer while the search for Jim West went on." Macquillan answered.

" You probably remember that the search went on for over seventeen months, with no real leads whatever and no reason to believe we wouldn't find Jim dead. It was only when Jacques and I went back to Baltimore for what seemed the hundredth time that a friend who administrates another hospital there contacted me.

"Erica Davidson said she'd seen a man who might be Jim West for all of ten minutes, months before. Someone, giving patently false names and an absolutely fraudulent story tried to leave Jim at Erica's hospital. Their story didn't ring true and there weren't any available beds just then.

"So they disappeared until Erica got my letter saying the search was still going on with no luck so far. She checked her files and her memory and realized that there was only one place a sick man could be effectively dumped, this so called Baltimore County Asylum which has nothing to do with the city or the county whatsoever."

"And you found Jim there, Mac, we all know that," Artemus said, rejoining the discussion. "We're all of us immensely grateful to Mrs. Davidson, for her memory and her compassion. I'm planning to send her a dozen roses on her birthday..."

"You're late with that, my friend," Mac Macquillan jibed. "Her birthday is August 5th; and Frank, Jacques, James and Joanna Richmond and I took her to the ballet and to dinner. Now, with that the matter settled what other complaints do you fellows have?"

Settled?" the chorus of three demanded.

"This isn't anything like settled!" Jeremy went on, while Ned took his turn at pacing the varnish car and fuming.

"Jim should never have been put be in Loveless' so called care; and he shouldn't be in that horrid place at this late date!" Jeremy exclaimed. " I don't understand how you fellows made this devil's bargain with Loveless. I don't know how you thought he would or could help Jim; and more to the point, I don't understand how you convinced the President or the Colonel, or the Director to sign off on this wretched idea."

"Mais, what is really distressing you three? " Jacques said, scowling and finally entering the conversation. "Is that we made this decision without interrupting your work across the country to ask your permission! You say you do not understand what we did, gentilhommes, when what you mean is you do not comprehend that we did so without consulting your expertise in the matter. Bien, I can explain that. C'est tres simple.

"There was no time left for cross country consultations! James was helplessly ill, absolutely amnesiac, thoroughly unable to communicate with any of us, constantly terrified, and for reasons we still have not been able to learn, more frightened of leaving that nightmarish place than of remaining there. Francis, if you will tell these tres gentilhommes of your own painful experience in regard to my last point, s'il tu plait?"

"Danged right I will," Frank Harper agreed. "Listen up, fellows, keep quiet a minute or two if you can and listen up. I went charging into that rotten place, right into that miserable courtyard a few days after Mac found Jim there. First, I did everything I could think of to arrange his release, and I mean everything up to and including threatening a Federal investigation. The fatherless sons who run that place for some business group they wouldn't name weren't impressed. Can you figure that?

Well, I left, fuming and fussing, fit to be hogtied and dragged.

" Course back I went, with some adjustments to costume and disguise, and tried again, claiming to be Jim's cousin Paul, with a tricked up power of attorney form and all the works. No sale, again. Out I went then into the courtyard, all the way back to where Jim plants himself most of the time, in the far left corner.

" Our friend, who I've hardly known to sit still for five minutes at a time since we met in the first winter of the War, our friend sat there unable to move, unable to speak, unable to recognize me, or as it turned out Mac, the Colonel or Joanna or Jacques. Mad as a wet hen I tried talking to Jim and it was no use at all. Madder still, I took it on myself to haul him out there."

"Alright, what happened then?" Artie asked, wondering for a moment if he wanted to hear this part of the story at all or if he already knew what Harper would say.

"By this time you've seen the way Jim sits back in that corner, right?" Frank asked and went on when the other agents nodded.

"He plants himself against the wall there like a June fly on a hound. He folds himself up like a lost little boy, knees up, head down. He doesn't move except once in a while to rock back and forth. Well, over I go and I hunker down and I talk myself blue in the face. No look from Jim, no word, no sound. I keep talking a while more and I reach for his arm to see if he'll turn his face my way.

"Well he was so frozen up before you'd never guess he could freeze up more. He did just that. He curled up so tightly he would have fallen back except for that danged wall. I decided to go ahead then and take things into my own two. I reached for Jim, who's lost enough weight in that place to blow away in a high wind; and I picked him up, like some of those fire fighters pick a fellow up, and over their shoulder.

"Jim goes absolutely wild with fear when I haul him to his feet and wilder still when I tried to carry him out of there. In no time flat, he was thrashing, kicking, and screaming, if you can call it that because his voice is so raw. I thought maybe he was hurting somewhere, so I set Jim down and gave a look-see. He had welts and bruises all down his back, his arms, and shoulders, but that wasn't the only problem at all.

"The rest of it was for the first time in two days Jim was fighting to say something aloud. You might have thought he'd be cussing and damning because of those hurts. That wasn't it at all, though. Jim West was crying and sobbing and ... going on for a minute or two his voice so rusty I couldn't make it out at first.

'No, no, no, no, no! Stay here! Stay here! Stay here! He was saying, as if it was a litany of some kind. 'Stay here. Stay here. Stay here. Stay here. Stay still. Stay still. Stay still. Stay here. Stay quiet, Stay quiet' and on like that until he was hysterical. On top of all that he was stuttering and lisping like a little boy who's just lost his front teeth; and Jim told me once, although he may have been exaggerating, that happened before he was six years old.

"The guards come running around by that time and the danged administrators, too. So now there's no way I could get Jim out there then or any other day, and they've been clued in on the rest of us, too. That's when Jacques, Mac and I went down to Richmond to get Loveless, fellows, and not before."

Artemus shuddered and noted that Ned and Jeremy looked as downcast now as he felt. Jacques, Mac, and Frank didn't look any cheerier for that matter.

" Mes amis," Jacques said now, in a quieter tone than any of them had been employing. "This entire case has been one shock after another. Artemus, you came close to dying at the point where we thought it was barely begun. Jeremy, you've run yourself ragged, in and out of various disguises trying to help James, once we knew where he was. Edouard, I happen to know that you attempted much the same rescue as Francis, and were just as worried by James's reaction.

"Before that, we spent months looking for James without success, only to have him emerge for one day at the Baltimore House, and vanish again. The only good news we had then was that with James' abduction the killings of those wretched soldiers and beggars in the District stopped. The only ray of hope we had while James was missing then was a trio of telegrams from him that it seems more likely now were absolute forgeries."

Artemus nodded and turned to look at Frank for a moment. "You said Jim was lisping like a little boy, and stuttering, too."

"Yep, why?"

"Because I wanted to check what you said against what something I remember Jim's cousin Jeanny, his uncle Jaimey's daughter told me," Gordon answered.

"At just about the time Jim turned six years old, his mother Elly West, and his grandfather, James Kiernan Torrance died in a house fire at their home outside Norfolk. His baby sister Emma and his little brother Cameron died right after the fire, probably from pneumonia related to smoke inhalation.

"Jeanny told me that Jim started stuttering and lisping and crying himself to sleep around that same time. He was an even-tempered kid before and a scared one after. He also began to get those bad bouts of bronchitis he can still have, then. So, when Jim was just six years old, he went through a pretty rough patch. Now he's going through an even rougher patch and he's showing these same behaviors. So, I'm thinking maybe that's the reason you three went to Loveless for help?"

"Absolutement," Jacques replied. "I'm glad you see that, now, Mon ami. Also, there is something else I have meant to say to everyone here. Gentilhommes, the truth of the matter presently is that James could be in a cleaner, kinder, less violent, less crowded hospital now and be no less ill. As for Miguel, pardon, Doctor Loveless, he seems to genuinely wish for an end to our former enmity. Also he brought James from a state almost... catatonique, which followed those episodes of violent fearfulness, comprenez-vous cela?"

Artemus swallowed hard and nodded, noting as he looked over that Ned simply shrugged, and Jeremy gave a scowling but positive response. For himself, the former actor hated the notion of entrusting Jim, while helplessly ill to their long time enemy. He'd felt alone at first in opposing the arrangement that was now a fait accompli; and somehow the support of half the team hadn't much helped. Jacques, Frank, and Macquillan were as miserably angry about these circumstances as Artemus, Ned, and Jeremy. The only difference lately was that the former trio saw no other means whatever to recover the friend and partner they had so strangely lost.

Jeremy sat down on one of the gold upholstered divans and reached for the glass of whiskey he'd abandoned a short while ago. Frank sat next to his long time partner and friend and poured them both another drink. Ned started pacing the varnish car, lengthwise this time and then excused himself, asking Thomas Macquillan to walk with him out in the terminal awhile. That left Artemus and Jacques in a less angry, but no less unhappy face off.

"Mon bien ami," Jacques said. "Do you think le petite docteur has so charmed me as to believe his words rather than my own eyes? Si non, avez-vous me accusez de mentir?"

"Accuse you of lying?" Artemus protested, "No, Jacques, never."

"Then believe me, Mon ami. James' health is improved; slowly, yes, very slowly he improves. Comprenez, it was only in December, ten months ago, ten months that seem far longer to all of us now, that we found James in that horrible place. In January, we went down to Richmond; and in February, it was arranged for le petit docteur to take up his role there. As noted, except for bouts of extreme, self-endangering fear when we found him, Jim neither moved nor spoke. He neither recognized his own name, nor us, nor seemed to understand anything we said. I'm sorry to go over and over that with you, Artemus,"

"No, Jacques, no, I'm sorry. I apologize and I'll apologize to Mac and to Frank if they'll let me, too."

Frank perked up his ears at this remark and laughed aloud for the first time that day. "Buy me a drink or two, Artemus and you can apologize all day and night," the lanky, dark haired, grey-eyed agent said.

"On the condition, of course that I let you fleece me at cards, right Frank?" Artemus asked in turn with just the trace of a smile.

"I thought that sorta went without saying," Harper grinned. "After all a fellow's gotta make a living somehow. Anyhow, there's no need to apologize at all, Artemus. We all felt damned helpless, seeing Jim there, and in that terrible state. Nothing we tried even made a dent, except to terrify him.

"Then there's the plain fact, one I'm not crazy about, that Loveless knows more about Jim West than all of us, all of us put together. Did you know, for instance that Jim was born at Jefferson Barracks in Missouri, or that his father was a doctor there at the time? Did you know about Jim's younger siblings who died? I didn't."

"No, not all of that, only that his father was a doctor," Artemus admitted. "Jim's not that much of a talker, you know."

"Never has been, no," Jeremy agreed, walking over to hand Artemus a glass of bourbon. "Maybe the three of us are wrong, friend. Maybe the three of them are right. I know that hardly ever happens, but it could have happened, this time. All I know now is that we have to get Jim West out of that horrible asylum, and that we can't do that while he's so deeply afraid of almost everything, ourselves included."

Gordon sipped, sighed, and shook his head. "We can't do much of anything while we don't know why Jim's like this; why he's become a sick, scared little boy. We still don't know what happened to him before he popped out of nowhere to meet with President Grant. We still don't know for certain that he found the men who were killing those Confederates, although it seems very likely. We still don't know all that happened to Jim after that day, or who took him away from the President's hotel.

"If Ned and Jeremy and I question Loveless' motives in all this, I'm sure you and Jacques and Mac did too. I guess that's my main sticking point, here. That man has never been known to keep his word, unless he could twist things around to suit himself in the process. So how do we know he'll keep his word to help Jim, now? What does he get out of doing what we need him to do?"

"I don't know," Frank admitted. "In fact I'm pretty glad I can't understand the good doctor's thought processes. On the other hand, he swore he would be the only one who could help Jim West out of some dire trouble someday; and that day surely came."

"Yes well, at that trial, I thought I knew exactly what the doctor wanted from a scenario like this one. I was certain and I'm not sure I was wrong that he simply wanted to lay coals of fire on Jim's head once all the trouble was worked out. I could picture that little man rubbing his hands together while wringing thanks out of Jim West. I still can, can't you?" Artemus asked his friends.

"I surely can," Jeremy agreed. "So, alright, he wants to rub Jim's face in the fact that the good doctor saved his life... which he's doing right now. So for that rubbing to happen Jim has to be well, whole and sane again. So, I'll take the rubbing and so will Jim, and so will all of us, supposing we ever get that far. I will because I know Loveless will work himself to exhaustion, and for as long as it takes if only to relish his adversaries' chagrin."

"For as long as it takes, eh?" Artie said as Jeremy clasped his shoulders and smiled, albeit wearily at his long time friend and some time cast mate. Then Artie frowned tiredly and looked away again.

"Of course, G-d alone knows how long that will be, right? Honestly, I'm not very good at waiting, not very good at all."

"Who among us are good at that, mon ami?" Jacques asked, plainly not expecting an answer.

"Jim, that's who," Artie replied. "Jim West, when he's sound and well is perfectly capable of sitting back and waiting for grass to grow, when necessary. You've all seen it, right? He just lounges back against one of these settees, or a log on the road, or a pile of stones, or a road sign at a crossroads... and waits.

"He puts his arms up over his head, his hat halfway down over his eyes; and if you don't know Jim the way we do you'd say he was taking a siesta. He's not, he's just waiting for whatever thugs or killers or counterfeiters we're dealing with to come by and do something stupid."

"Can't argue with that," Frank said, grinning. "Except he learned that trick from yours truly, as a matter of fact. We went on a snipe hunt once, you see and ..."

"A snipe hunt?" Jeremy and Artie echoed, laughing.

"Frank, old friend, old buddy," Artie went on. "You do know that snipes don't exist, right?"

"Wrong, Artemus, you're wrong again," Frank grinned. "Wilson snipes are pudgy, short tailed shorebirds that live up and down both the eastern and the western coasts of this fine country of ours, and hunt for worms, crawdads, deer flies, horse flies, and other such delicacies in marshes, lakes and ... on the shore."

"They're hard to hunt because they're all buff and brown stripes and bars, with dark heads and backs. Except their backs and their heads have buff stripes, their chests have brown stripes and their bellies have black stripes. If you ever hear a flight of male Wilson snipes, you'll know they're real because they're the only birds I know of who make a sort of winnowing sound with their tail feathers."

"Hmmmph," Artie said, and reached for the glass of whiskey Jeremy offered him. After sipping some of the warming, bracing drink Artemus looked at his long time friends and shook his head.

"We're way off the track at this point, you know? We were in the midst of a fine feathered quarrel when you started talking about snipes, Frank."

"Ha, ha," Frank replied. "We were in the midst of a fine... never mind. We have to stop fighting amongst ourselves, fellows. It only helps the fatherless sons who damaged Jim this way, not Jim and not us. Come to think of it, Artemus, it seems more and more likely, doesn't it that the same bastards t you within an inch of your life?"

Artie shuddered, the last thing he wanted to think about, now or ever again was waking up in a Washington hospital in traction, in horrendous pain and amnesiac to boot.

"Couldn't say, Frank," the former actor answered. "Literally I couldn't say if that's the case. Whomever I spent that time with made damn sure I can't remember them, or whatever charming accommodations they let me stay in. So it may be the same people who did these terrible things to Jim, or it may be any one of the hundreds of bad types who don't like me very much."

"Just because you threw them in jail?" Jeremy chuckled. "Touchy, touchy!"

"Touché, touché, I think is what you meant there, Jere," Artemus jibed back. "The fact of the matter is, Frank, I don't believe I made the same acquaintance of the people Jim did at that time. Think about how different each set of circumstances were:

"I was missing for nine days. Jim was missing for six months. I got kinda beat up. Jim ... well, we still don't know for certain what was done to him, do we. They let me go, for whatever reason with only that ting. Jim says he stole a horse and just slipped out of their clutches. I'm perfectly all right now. Jim's so ill he doesn't know who he is, or what happened to him. Not only does none of that make any sense to me, fellows; but it doesn't make any sense next to the rest of this rotten case. Think about it."

"We have," Frank admitted. "I can't make sense of it, either; but..."

"Ah, how did I know there was a 'but'?" Artie laughed tiredly. "Okay, I'll bite, as it were. What've you got in your hand, gambler?"

Frank shook his head and gestured as if he were spreading a poker hand out on a table.  
"You're talking about things that differ, Artemus. I'm thinking about things that seem far too much alike, that's what: Mac's team was asked to look into this because dozens of veterans of Lee's Army of Northern Virginia were going missing, and turning up murdered or ten severely. The men who survived those tings had no memory whatever of where they'd been or who might have hurt them. That's the first similarity.

"You went out disguised as a member of the 18th North Carolina, Second Corps. You also went out after getting word that a friend and sometime informant Shimon Lehrer, another Army of Northern Virginia veteran, from Longstreet's First Corps in his case, had been abducted and then brutally murdered. In Shimon's case it was even more ghastly, because they..."

"Because they effectively crucified him against a rotten, abandoned farm's fence just north of Alexandria," Artie finished when Frank fell silent.

"Because Shimon was Jewish, they mutilated and desecrated his body and left him hanging there with a placard that read 'No damn Yids like this un shoulda ever bin in Bobbie Lee's Army! No wuthless damn Yids like this un belong ennywhere in th' Gloryus New Cnfedracee! No damn G-d killin' Yids like this un are gonna ruin the Comin' Days of Glory, neether!' Yeah, I kinda remember that."

"Do you remember that you were hot as a pistol to go out after those killers?" Frank asked.

"Yes, of course I was," Artie started to say.

"Do you remember talking to some of the veterans who survived those tings, hearing them say they went out after some crazy fellows who were killing and ting some of their friends from the War? That's the second similarity." Frank added.

"Then you were found, barely half alive, Artemus; and guess what? Jim West was through the roof he was that openly angry, and practically halfway out the door before he thought about going after the people who t his partner in disguise. Maybe you noticed, Jim's been especially touchy about things like that since the two you ran into those gunmen in Arizona."

"The Pistoleros," Artemus nodded. "Third similarity, I get it. How many more aces do you have in that hand of yours, Frank?"

"One ace and maybe a joker," Frank smiled. "The joker comes first: Not even one other of the men who were killed or ten before Jim West disappeared had a sign, a letter, a note or anything like the placard that was left with Shimon Lehrer, not one. So we had clear no motive in their killings, not even as horrendous a one as his killers claimed. We still don't.

"Well, the analysts and doctors at the Service and the War department have done more examinations over the past two years and discovered another connection: all these men were somehow maimed during the War, all would be figures of pity, of immediate compassion to a great many people, including, as we all know, the President. So the analyst's thought and mine is that our killers in this case thought to send a man who was maimed or disfigured to kill the President, because he would seem harmless."

"So for a period of time, these murderers meant to send a veteran of Robert E. Lee's army to attack the President, one who wouldn't seem a threat until they got too close to be stopped?" Artemus suggested.

"Only then they decided to bait first me, than Jim into their spider's web. Either they changed their minds, or there arose a strong difference of opinion between absolute bastards? In any case...wait a second, what did we just say, Frank?" The actor-agent stood stock-still and then raised an eyebrow at his colleagues.

"I'm not sure now, Artemus, what?" Frank asked.

"They changed their minds, they changed their modus operandi!" Artie exclaimed. "For a time these murderers were looking for almost any maimed, scarred, or crippled veteran of the Army of Northern Virginia It makes perfect sense to send a man who looks even more ten down, even more harmless against the President, because no one would suspect them, even if they were Confederates.

"Then, two years ago or so they turned a new leaf, and laid their traps for three very specific men, Shimon Lehrer, Jim West and me! Now Shimon was in Longstreet's First Corps; but he was a reluctant soldier at best, and thought of taking his family north, out of Augusta, out of the South. We met during the East Tennessee Campaign. He was taken prisoner and we talked quite a lot.

"So, you're right, fellows, it has to be the same killing crew that targeted Shimon, Jim and me. Shimon was brutalized and murdered because he became my friend and sometime informant, and for no other reason. Even that placard was overdone and over-reaching, meant to get my dander up, as if what they did to Shimon wasn't enough.

"Then as Frank says I went out, full throttle after Shimon's killers. I was taking it personally, all right! Shimon was the bait they used to trap me, damn them. Then I was turned into the bait to bring Jim out in full-feathered wrath. I could have walked into their hands without one shred of a disguise! They knew who I was before I got anywhere near the place!"

Jeremy took a turn now to walk over to Artemus and try to ease the other man's frustrated rage.

" Listen Friend, don't you think Jim, when he's sound and well again will say that he's the reason both you and Shimon were targeted, not the other way around? These murderers knew enough to know Jim's friends, and his friend's friends as well. They changed their minds about who they wanted to assault the President and kill him. We know that now. They changed their minds and focused on getting Jim West of all people for that role; maybe because of his closeness to the President, maybe not. In any case, you're not at fault here."

Artie looked at the other man, a long time friend and cast mate in productions from Chicago to San Francisco and Boston to New Orleans before the War.

"You're sure of that, are you?" Artemus finally said with a glum frown. "Well, I'm not. In fact, Jere, if Jim were standing where you are, whole, well and sighted, as he may be someday, G-d willing, I couldn't look him in the eye. I couldn't and you know why I say that. You all know why."

''Because Jim was in Baltimore, with you, for less than a fortnight, before … the disaster at the President's hotel?'' Jeremy nodded.

'' Yes, exactly because Jim was here, alive and tired and I only see the signs and signals of the trouble he must have been in, in perfect, 20-20 hindsight! He was edgy, he was frustrated as all get out, and mad as a wet hen over the failure of every single lead he'd been following for something over eight months time. Only he was sane, he was well, my friends, and he was … Jim.

"In fact, what should have sent off all the alarms in my head, in those ten or twelve days, was just how angry Jim was letting himself be. He would get furious, absolutely furious, with the report he was trying to write out for the Man, with the rescheduling that kept going on, regarding his meeting with the President, and with me, every single time I tried to just get him to get some rest! I was being a mother hen, Jim said.

"That was the only thing that was really bothering him, then. He said. When I suggested he ask the President to postpone that meeting, my friends, you would have thought I'd asked Jim West to turn over the keys to Fort Knox and both the San Francisco and Denver Mints! You would have thought I'd asked him to hand over command of every Army fort west of the Mississippi! In other words, he didn't exactly take to that idea, either. Only now, it seems to me that I saw things were more than little off with Jim that week. Then, no, then I took everything Jim said back then at face value! So how incredibly blind does that make me?''

Jacques walked over now, so did Frank and Mac, the parlour car was really too small for any private conversations. Jeremy and Artie both knew that.

'' S'il tu plait, mon ami.'' The Canadien urged. '' Go on, this isn't something I have heard you speak of before now.''

'' I think Jacques has a point, old friend.'' Macquillan nodded. '' You might not like to talk about that time. Right now we need, and Jim needs, every scrap of information, guesswork and recollection we can lay our hands on, Artie.''

'' Well, you're right. I don't like talking about it, so I suppose I haven't.'' Artie scowled, and finished his drink, and went on. '' And you all know how much l like to plague Jim about how stoic he can be, how impassive, what a great deadpan he can do, how he really must have been born up in Vermont, like you, Jere, instead of … well, Maryland or Virginia.

"Well, he's … steadier, calmer, and far less demonstrative than … some people, me, for example. Also, in all the time I' ve known Jim, I've wondered, more than once, if he was just holding back, not allowing himself to be anything like demonstrative, to make me look all the more volatile.

"There has only been one other time when I thought Jim West was about to … when I thought I was going to catch the impassive, implacable James T. West in an act of blatant, joyful astonishment. I know Jim was this close to it… and then he just shut it off again, as it were a wine-tap. Even that took a really lousy charade on the part of some really nasty types! I told you about this, Mac, maybe I haven't mentioned to the rest of you…

"Jim looked up, from ducking the Pistolero I'd just yelled 'LOOK OUT, JIM! '' at the top of my lungs, to warn him about. He saw me at the top of those stairs, and he saw I was alive and well, instead of being dead and buried for a solid week! So I knew! I knew Jim West was about to either keel over in a dead faint, or he was about to yelp 'ARTIE!' like a keyed up schoolboy.

"Only no, not so much. Instead, I lean over the railing in the upstairs hallway, I look Jim right in the eye, and he says: ' Thanks, Artie.'' As if I'd just told him it wasn't going to rain! 'Back from the dead, risen like Lazarus,' I told him, 'I come back from the dead, risen, like Lazarus and all you've got to say to me is 'Thanks, Artie.'? Well, Jim West looks at me with that deadpan I mentioned firmly back in place and he just says. 'Thanks, Artie.' Again. So, my friends, right about now, I'm thinking if Loveless can wring some real gratitude out of Jim West, … He'll deserve every drop!''

WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

SCENE SIX

WASHINGTON DC

NEW JERSEY STREET STATION,

BALTIMORE AND OHIO RAILROAD DEPOT,

THE WANDERER,

FEBRUARY 1874

"Artemus, so long as we're talking about that one occasion; and James I do not believe would object." Jacques nodded. "Tu as raison, mon ami. James hardly knew what to say or feel; but he was delighted. He told me he literally couldn't believe his eyes."

"Sure, Jim would tell anyone that, anyone but me." Artie frowned, but not very convincingly.

"Only because he knows you place so much importance on such matters. James does as well, mon ami, but he has…_comment t'on dit?_ Not so forthcoming a temperament as yours. I would probably dispute him on this point, and I may yet, still, James doesn't feel himself well able to voice his feelings."

"No, that much I know. The only other time I knew him to give the least sign of emotion, was when we went down to Norfolk, for his Grandmother Torrance 's services. Jim was even quieter than usual, that whole week; but he was holding back tears, that much I could tell."

''Bien sur, Artemus, Bien sur. So, during the time both of you were in Baltimore, before his meeting with M'sieur l' President, mon ami, you say James was extraordinarily angry?'' Jacques pressed him.

'' Yes, he was. He wasn't sleeping, either. Yes, you heard me right. Jim West who always insists, with his West Point training, he can sleep, wake up, eat, march, or ride at a moment's notice, anywhere, any time, under any and all conditions, was suffering from insomnia. He wouldn't tell me why for half that time. Finally, when I called him on it, Jim admitted he couldn't sleep at all without having horrid dreams from the War; about the Bloody Lane at Antietam, the men dying between the lines at Cold Harbor, the fires in the Wilderness, and Marye's Heights at Fredericksburg.''

''James said much the same thing to M'sieur l' Presidente, at their last meeting. '' Jacques exclaimed. '' It's there in the deposition M'sieur Grant gave at the time. He said that Jim talked to him about two groups of former Confederates; one of which was involved in those killings, and in a conspiracy against the President, and the other, with no interest except to see a swift and legal end to Reconstruction. M'sieur l' President testified that James seemed obsessed with all the worst memories he had of the War.''

Now Artie groaned and shook his head as if to be rid of something painful and surprising. "That's it! That's it! Why, why didn't I see it? Why didn't I get the blatant, glaring, right there in my face connection?" the former actor shouted.

"Tell us, Artemus," Frank said, and glanced at Jacques and Jeremy to see if they had a clue to what Artemus was saying. Both men shook their heads.

"Qu' est qu' c'est, mon ami?" Jacques asked.

"While I was in the hospital that winter, and for a good while afterwards," Artemus finally said, his shoulders slumping, his eyes downcast.

"I dreamt, over and over about Vicksburg, especially the one charge we made against the walls there; and about Franklin, the sheer carnage of that battle... the waste of lives on both sides, about Chickamauga, running like madmen back inside Chattanooga and getting stuck there... about Shiloh, the Hornet's Nest, the church, getting backed up against the River...

Over and over, I had those dreams; and they were always limited to the worst elements of those battles. Great G-d! Those fatherless sons tried to plant the same seeds in my mind as they did with Jim! It had to be the same bastards! Only they let me go.

They could have killed me; I'd have to guess a hundred times over and that would have better served their purpose. If we're right, friends and I'm thinking we are, killing me would only have spurred Jim on that much harder. I know that because Jim thought I'd been killed in Arizona and from all accounts that drove him after the Pistoleros all the more fiercely. Why did they let me go? Why did they let me live when they could have..." Artie shuddered again and sipped some whiskey. "Are we back to this whole nightmare making no sense, again?"

"You're the only one who can tell us that. So I'd say that's what you need to get back to work on, remembering, that is." Thomas Macquillan answered, reentering the varnish car.

"It seems pretty certain now that Jimmy only encountered one group of former Confederates last year, not two as he suggested to the President. None of our contacts, none of our snitches or Southern auxiliaries has heard anything about this supposed petition or the people who sent it. That makes it a pretty good bet to be a cover for the real conspirators; and that makes our work that much easier. We don't have to be hunting for twice as many bad guys as there really are. Now you, Artemus, old friend, are our best source of information on these bad guys. For whatever reason, you did get away from them with your life. So, we need you to keep digging in that photographic memory, for any and every scrap you can find. ''

"Yeah, got it, Thomas," Artie said, tapping his head as if he could shake something loose. "I'll just stay here and play with my marbles, what's left of them at this point. Where's Ned?"

"Ned's going to see the Director and James Richmond with some new ideas he came up with. He thinks what we do, that most of the killings were sheer vindictiveness and cowardice on the part of these conspirators. That being said, Ned thinks we should go back to family and friends of some of those murdered men, to find out more about them and about their last days and weeks. It may be they had more in common, or more connections to this plot than we know."

"Are you going with him, Mac?" Frank asked. "Or do you think one of us should?"

"I'm going along. Do you think you should too, Frank?" Macquillan asked in turn.

"Yes, yes, I think I'll do that. If we're going to end up talking to some of those men's friends or kin especially the North Carolinians, it couldn't hurt to have someone from Cape Fear along. Take care, fellow. Oh and Artemus, Hildy, Terese and Lottie are coming with me, to help keep in touch."

''Are they indeed? Harem robber!'' Artie protested laughingly, as Harper gently removed those 'dear ladies', from the dovecot behind the mantelpiece. Laughing, some of their tension relieved, Mac and Frank left the Wanderer to hire a carriage.

Jeremy had been walking up and down the varnish car and now lounged on one of the settees, his back against one end, his feet resting on the other.

"Time for your siesta, Jere?" Artie jibed.

"It's always noon somewhere, Friend," Jeremy laughed. "Also, all that arguing wears me out, where it seems to invigorate you and Jacques somehow."

"I'm not sure I feel invigorated right now," Artemus answered. "At least I don't feel as helpless as I did a while ago. Thanks, by the way, Jeremy for backing me up, remind me to thank Ned, too when he gets back."

"Ned will remind you, Friend, no question about that. Only, if the three of us were wrong, why are you thanking me?"

"Because I'm not as fond of tilting at windmills these days," Artie offered. "Also, if I'm going to be wrong, I prefer to have good company while I do it. Also, unless I'm arguing with Jim, I don't actually enjoy a good argument as much as I used to."

"Arguing? With Jim?" Jeremy echoed. "Jim West? He doesn't argue. He just clamps his lantern jaw shut, gets up on his steamroller and runs right over you to wherever he's decided he's going. Anyway, that's been my experience, what about you, Jacques?"

"Vraiment," D'eglisier agreed, chuckling at the image Jeremy painted. "So, gentilhommes, we still have these files I collected from Madame de Cervantes, shall we look through them before I hand them over to Miguel tomorrow or the next day?"

"No, no, Jacques, the files we have to work on now are just where Mac said they were; inside my battered old noggin," Artemus said, frowning again. "And since I'm not all that interested in experimenting with trephination, there's only one other way I know to get at them. "

"Yeah, trephination of your skull won't let us see what you remember or don't remember, anyhow." Jeremy joked. "You want Jacques or me to hypnotize you, right?"

"I don't want anyone to hypnotize me," Artie protested. "I just don't see any choice in the matter. So, flip a coin fellows, and tell me which of you is the lucky one who gets to go spelunking inside my brain pan."

"Jeremy, you have known Artemus somewhat longer than I, perhaps that would give you an advantage in such a process," Jacques suggested.

"Oh, I get it, age before beauty; is that it, Jacques?" Jeremy laughed. "No, I'll sit it out and man the observation post here while you do the spelunking. This sort of exploration can be hard on both parties, from my experience. Also, we're too much alike, being world class show-offs and extroverts and so forth and so on, most of the time.

"Also, I rummaged around in Artemus' brainpan once before. It needed to be done, for much the same reason, once during the War. Our talented mutual friend found a way to keep the Rebels from learning what he was after behind the lines. He made himself lock it up in his mind, tighter than the iron bands on a barrel. So getting at the same information once we were back inside our own lines wasn't exactly the most fun either of us ever had. So, you go ahead, mon docteur ami. I'll make sure the necessary fortifying liquid substances are right at hand here."

"You just want to get at my very special old pale Martell, over there in the traveling decanters," Artie laughed. "I never should have let out that I found some, the last time I was in New Orleans."

"Nonsense," Jeremy chuckled, while walking over to the cabinet that held the traveling decanters. These were held in gleaming brass trays that swung out when the cabinet was opened. "Personally I can't stand the stuff, it tastes like ... I don't know, old fruit in water or something... eaux d vie, isn't that what they call it?"

Both other agents laughed, but Artemus grew somber again and turned away Jeremy's offer of a snifter of brandy. He started to pace the car again then stopped and shook his head. "You know this was my idea, gents and I still don't really want to do it; but I have to. I don't suppose either one of you has a watch for me to sit and watch, do you? Well that's all right, I have one that should be perfect for the job."

The former actor pulled an intricately engraved, open faced bronze colored gold pocket watch out of his vest pocket and held it out for his friends to examine. "When we were in all that trouble down in Arizona a couple or three years ago, Jim gave that to me twice, after a manner of speaking."

"After a manner of speaking?" Jeremy repeated. "Sounds like there's a story involved here. Wait, you said Jim gave this to you twice?"

"It was meant to be a birthday gift, and sort of a surprise at that," Artie answered. "I'd seen one very much like this in a jeweler's window out in the City and admired it. James was good enough to take the hint without too much work on my part. Then he had it engraved and shipped to our next stopping point, which turned out to be Tucson.

"The first watch arrived while a whole lot of chaos was going on near the border with Sonora, as you may have heard. Jim ... gave the watch to the man he thought was me, actually a Leinsterman named Anrai Gilmartin who ... died there, impersonating me of all people. The second watch Jim sent for when I was back on duty; and he must have paid an arm and a leg for the watch, the engraving, and the shipping that time. He must have, because it arrived before we left Tucson again, after the trials there."

"So, I guess we're going to have to stop calling Jim a cheapskate, at least when it comes to birthday presents, eh?" Jeremy said as Jacques took the watch into his hands and opened it.

" 'Think where man's glory most begins and ends,

And say my glory was I had such friends'." Jacques read, and handed the watch to Jeremy who gave it back to Artie, who sat looking at the inscription for a long while.

"Another surprising revelation from our usually taciturn friend, non?"

"Oui," Artie said, closing the watch. "Of course, as I mentioned earlier, Jim spent something like a fortnight then, believing I'd been killed."

"Not when he bought you a watch just like that one the first time, Friend." Jeremy suggested, studying Artemus, who once more looked glum and tired out. "Are you sure you're up to Jacques or anyone digging around in your mind and your memories right now?"

''My friend you are still troubled, non? Mais we have struck a true insight, non? Your memory of that time is returning and that can only help us, and you and James, as well, _j' crois.'' _Jacques said when Artie stayed quiet.

'' Jacques, you are the optimist on this team, not me, you know that, right?'' Artie asked.

'_'Mais oui,_ and you are not the pessimist, mon ami, but the realist, _non_?''

'' _Vraiment._ So, you tell me, Mon docteur-ami-l'optimiste; aside from that natural tendency you have to see the glass as half-full, what is there to make you think Jim … will ever get well, again? Because frankly, I can't believe that, anymore; it's been nearly two years! No, since Jim went out on this case, Jacques, it's been more like two and a half years, now!"

'' Artemus, if we are now correct, if there was only one conspiracy, only one group of traitors and killers abducting Confederate veterans that year, then my reason for optimism is just what Thomas said, before leaving. . You are regaining your memory, mon ami, and the more you remember, the more we know what harm was done you, and James. As _un docteur,_ that is the only way, non, the best way to find the treatment for a withdrawn patient, you must do all you can to find a patient more communicative, who has the same or similar ailments.

Our adversaries in this case have done terrible harm to both James and you, mon ami. Mais, you I can ask questions of, whereas Torry has no understanding of what I would ask at all. Bien sur, your answers will aid Torry, James West, and you. You could not be more help to James under present circumstances, mon ami, unless you could put your hand out and point us directly to those batards who abducted and harmed you both. _Si, encore, est ce que t' n' comprends pas ca?''_

"_Oui, bien sur," _Artemus answered, frowning."Maybe Jere's right, though, maybe this is the wrong time to try plowing through my brains. For one thing, you might not like what you find there; for another, I might just fall sound asleep on you, instead of remembering anything at all."

"Very well, mon ami, go and rest a while. Jeremy and I will play chess or some other quiet business to occupy ourselves," Jacques agreed. "You will need to rest in any case, Artemus, or you will be too weary when we go back to Baltimore."

'' To Baltimore, why would I be going there, Jacques? I…'' Artie asked and then shook his head. '' No, no, my friend, you don't. You don't imagine I'm going to go pay a social call on l' petit docteur, do you?''

'' I wouldn't classify it quite that way, mon ami. Non, I would say you would be accompanying me to visit _un petit garcon, qui s'appelle Torry''_

"Why on G-d's green earth would you want me to do that?'' Artie demanded, frowning again.

''Because when you do, you will see far better than my words can tell, why I still have hope.'' Jacques told him, not backing down an inch. '' Of course, you need not even approach Torry if you wish…''

'' I need not!'' Artie exclaimed, whirling around from where he still stood by the decanters, to face the doctor. '' My G-d, Jacques! You make it sound as if I were afraid of a little boy or worse, afraid to see Jim!''

'' Of course, you are not afraid of either of them.'' Jacques said. "So, of course you will accompany Jeremy and me to Baltimore, tomorrow afternoon, non?''

Suddenly, Artie felt ice sliding down his spine and he grabbed for the table, just to keep his feet as something even worse than being afraid of a child or a sick friend came to mind. His dark-bright eyes opened to twice their normal size; and he went on staring from Jacques to Jeremy and back for a long silent moment, before tearing his gaze away.

''Oh, my ... Oh, my G-d!'' he exclaimed after a long silence. ''Oh my dear G-D!''

Jacques was at his left side in the same instant, and Jeremy on his right, guiding the older agent back to the settee. Artie was breathing as hard now as if he'd run a footrace, and shaking his head.

_''Etes-vous en douleur, mon ami?''_ Jacques demanded, falling back on his native language _''Est-ce qu' immediatement, Artemus. Vous me dit souffre la nausee, ou le vertige? Est-ce que ceci semble être comme votre saisie precedente de coeur?''_

'_'Non, non.''_ Artie finally managed to answer, looking up at his friend. '' No, Jacques, it's not a heart-seizure. G-d! I almost wish it were! I can't go to Baltimore with you, well, not to that damned asylum, anyhow! What were you just now saying about all the help that I could give Jim by getting my memory back from that time? Well, mon docteur-ami, you were right, within some pretty exacting parameters, in fact, you were dead right!''

'' You have now recalled something that leads you to believe you must not …'' Jacques started to ask, but Artie cut him off, sharply.

'' ''I thought it wasn't long enough! I WAS SURE THEY DIDN'T HOLD ME LONG ENOUGH! Those bastards, those monsters, Jacques, Jere…'' Artie said, and as Jacques watched and listened, began to shiver as if caught in an ice storm. '

'Artemus, what is it? ARTEMUS!'' Jacques shouted, and only that brought the actor's dark gaze back to him, wide with shock and fear. 'Artemus, mon ami bien, n' t 'disquiets pas. You are not in the hands of our adversaries now. You are onboard the train with me and …''

"And me," Jeremy said his own grey eyes wide as tea saucers and full of concern. "Take it easy a minute, Artemus and tell us what's going on. Just take a few deep breaths, first."

"Jere, Jacques! Those fatherless sons! They did the same damnable things to Jim that they did to me, and for months on end! '' Artie protested. ''I just remembered more than I ever wanted to know about those devils, what they're capable of, and what they intended!" Artemus said, his dark eyes glinting with fury.

"We've been talking about this half the night, tonight, and off and on for months, for years now:" Artemus went on, with evident difficulty. "We've been talking about the impossible fact that I've had no memory of the time I went missing that winter. You've said yourself, more than once that wasn't, that it couldn't be naturally occurring amnesia at all. "You've said several times that those bastards must have used drugs or hypnosis or both to keep me from remembering them. Well, I guess there was a time limit on their trickery after all. Because now I remember … Jacques, 'THEY DID, THEY PATTERNED ME AND I COULD HAVE DONE WHAT THEY … I just remembered... those bastards wanted me to kill Jim West!''

'' If that is the case, mon ami, you must in fact, come with me to see Torry. You have not harmed a hair on his head, and you must begin to understand that it would not be possible to you. You must, we must finally defeat these enfants du prete at their own game.'' Jacques insisted, giving the older agent not brandy, now, but a glass of tea, instead.

"I'm not going to say yes or no till I've heard exactly what you remember now, Artemus," Jeremy added. "I think Jacques may be right though. At least we know that you could no more kill Jim West than he could assassinate the President."

''Have you both lost your minds now?" Artie demanded, taking the glass and then ignoring it. '' They … whenever I tried to recall that time, all that came up was the rock-solid certainty that I wasn't in their bloody hands long enough to take any real harm. Well, compared to Jim, I wasn't; but I was there long enough for them to lay the groundwork for what was supposed to happen to Jim West. I was there long enough for them to set me up! They wanted Jim to kill the President and for me to shoot Jim down in the street outside that damned hotel! Isn't that bad enough? Isn't that enough?"

'' Non, non, we want to know all that you've recollected, mon ami. Go on, s'il t' plait,'' Jacques answered. "Whatever you can now recall will only be more of what we've sought to learn, more of what we need to know to help our jeune frere. Go on, Artie, go on and tell us what you are recollecting, _maintenant.''_

Jacques so rarely used Gordon's nickname that it caught and held the actor-agent's attention as the doctor intended it should. Shaking his head to indicate he saw the trick of it, Artie answered.

'' Isolation, complete and utter isolation, no sounds, no light, no warmth, nothing to touch, and nothing to smell even... that's the core of it all. I don't know, even now, how long I was inside what might have been a grain silo, except it was too narrow, too clean, too symmetrical, or a well, except the sides were made of riveted steel panels, with something like glass or ceramic lining the inside.

"I was tied up, always tied up and over and over, left inside one of those cylinders, metal cylinders as wide around as a well, and about half as deep. I was inside there long enough to loose all track of time. Then they used drugs, different kinds of drugs, some made me shake as if I had a high fever, and some wouldn't let me move a muscle. I think they t me up once or twice... before that last time.

"Then there was hypnosis. Jacques, Jere, I think that's why even talking about being hypnotized set me off, just now. They used drugs and hypnosis and isolation to break me down, and ... and ... set me up and... And... I don't remember arriving at or leaving the place I was held. I don't remember much of what it looked like; just a rambling old house out in the countryside ... " Artie said and finally sipped the tea.

"We'll find them, we'll find those fatherless sons. They're not superhuman; and that means they made some mistakes somewhere, probably some big ones, all things considered. These plotters and conspirators always do, even Wilkes Booth didn't achieve the beheading of the entire Union government as he planned."

"No, I know that. Booth wanted Lincoln, Secretary Seward and Andrew Johnson all dead," Artemus nodded.

"Well, that's no help to them, or to us, or to Jim now, is it? I just have to keep on digging, just as Mac said. I have to dig down two years and a little more now, don't I? I guess I don't get bragging rights about my memory after this, do I?"

"Mon ami, we were talking about how you and James came away with no memory of the people who abducted and abused you both," Jacques noted. " You've been saying you were hypnotized, drugged and tortured over more than a week's time. Does it not seem to you that one purpose of those devilish acts was just that, to block your memories? Yet, now you are recollecting those times; and that is the best news any of us have had since James was found and began to be able to interact with us again, non?"

"Oui, mon docteur ami," Artie acknowledged and shuddered again. "So, another reason to think it was the same black hearted murderers and traitors who took all those former Confederates, including Shimon; who took me and finally Jim to wherever in the devil they took us. It was a wreck of an old house on the outside; and the outbuildings weren't in very good condition either. It was closer to Washington than to Baltimore, I'm thinking, because I almost woke up at one point, in a wagon, in an ordinary farm wagon and we were still in the countryside... and then a while later I was thrown out, by the docks in Baltimore, I think.

"That being said, I'm not sure if I'm remembering anything from that time the way it happened," Artie said and fell glumly silent again.

"Don't get lost in that confusion again, Friend," Jeremy said. "That's what those fatherless sons want, for us all to run around like a lot of chickens with our heads off. Just tell us what's coming into that overly-conked noggin as it comes, now."

"Sure, sure," Artie agreed. "Maybe there's something that will help... help Jim, I mean."

"We know you were beaten in an alleyway near the docks in Baltimore, mon ami," Jacques added. "So see if you can take a step back from that instant and tell us about the place you were held prisoner, the place with those steel cylinders, s'il tu plait."

"Yeah," Artemus nodded, "ask for the easy part, why don't you? All right. I ... I didn't see any of that old house... except for the basement, and the attic. I don't know if there was a lift, or I just wasn't conscious when I went from one to the other. Those... cylinders were in the basement, which makes sense, I guess, if you're digging a hole in the ground...

"There were cages, not cells, cages in the basement, not tall enough for a man to sit up in, not wide enough to stretch your arms... cages, with shackles, as if for a rabid dog. Only there were no dogs in that whole place that I saw or heard; no dogs, no cats, no rats or mice in the attic... where they had a laboratory."

"This is also something you haven't been able to tell us before, Artemus," Jeremy noted. "These ...people if you can call them that, had a laboratory set up there?"

"All set up," Artie answered. "There were tables, benches, burners, vials, beakers, all down one side of that attic. There were metal shelves filled with bottles, and metal trays; too, white, enameled trays. I didn't see what was in them. There could have been syringes, small vials, bottles, or...or instruments...surgeon's instruments, surgeon's..." Once again, Artie's eyes widened and he fought for composure.

"What is it, Mon ami?" Jacques asked. "What more have you recalled?"

"The bastard, the chief bastard in charge there!" Artemus replied. "He talked about being a surgeon! He talked about being in, working in field hospitals during the Crimean War and during our late War, too! He spoke with a slight accent, not Russian, not French and not British, I think I would have remembered that, no matter what. No, no, it wasn't exactly German, either, not from Hannover, not from Prussia, nothing in the northern regions,"

"That gives us Silesia, Wurttemberg, Saxony or Bavaria, roughly speaking," Jeremy said. "Or, on a guess, Artemus, could this fellow be from Alsace, or Switzerland?"

"Austria!" Artie exclaimed, "He was Austrian. He was from Salzburg but all he talked about was Vienna. He talked about Vien, always about Vien and how he would go back there soon... for the music, the art, the science, for the Imperial splendors, for the sophistication..."

"This surgeon," Jacques asked, frowning darkly at the idea that a medical man would take part in torture. "This Austrian, mon ami, if he intended returning to the continent, why would he be involved in a plot to take M'sieur Grant's life?"

"I have no idea, mon ami, none at all," Artemus admitted. "Still, I seem to be making headway without the hypnosis. It's certainly better than sitting around looking at old files, feeling angry and helpless, isn't it?"

"Bien sur," Jacques agreed. "These are great strides you have made in a short time, Artemus. Perhaps we should not press you further this evening, though."

"If you hadn't pressed me, we wouldn't have got this far, Jacques," Artie said. "We have to keep digging, just like Mac said, keep digging around in my head till something that can really help Jim emerges. After all, if Jim weren't still in so much trouble, none of us would be worried about what happened two years ago or so. None of us would be arguing with each other, prodding each other or even sitting around commiserating with each other, would we."

"With this Martell to drink, Artemus," Jeremy chuckled, lifting his own glass. "I'd be delighted to commiserate with you anytime you're in town."

"No surprise there, Friend," Artie laughed back, shaking his head, and pointing at Jeremy like a schoolmaster. "Now I see it plainly, you were only agreeing with me before Mac left, in hopes of getting some of that brandy!"

"Don't cane me, sir!" Jeremy joked, curling his long arms over his head. "I was led astray... by Ned Brown. He said he got one little sip of this brandy once and was bound and determined to get another."

"Well, Ned's not here at the moment; and I'm not having a heart seizure. So suppose you pour some of that brandy for me and Jacques?"

"With pleasure," Jeremy answered and complied, pouring and handing each of his friends a snifter with a good quarter inch of Martell VSOP. When the trio of friends had enjoyed the aroma and the warming liquid, Jacques sat on the settee facing Artemus, and Jeremy perched on one edge of the library table, his long legs dangling.

"I propose a toast," Jeremy said, standing again. "To absent friends, who are thereby being cheated out of a sip of this marvelous liquor. Should we be gentlemen and save some for them, or be greedy, relax and drink it all, knowing that Artemus has sources to replenish the supply down in New Orleans."

"I found one shop in the Quarter there, a block or two from Jackson Square, that had a few bottles!" Artie protested. "Also, if you can't find decent cognac in New Orleans you have to go to Lyons, Marseille, or Paris to get it!"

"Aren't you forgetting about Jacques' hometown, Friend?" Jeremy laughed. "They have a few Frenchmen up in Montreal, you might have heard. And Frenchmen, from what I've heard drink wine from the instant they're weaned."

"Naturalement," Jacques laughed in turn. "Wine is mother's milk to anyone with a drop of French blood, mes amis. Cognac of this superior quality however is a gift from le Bon Dieu and never to be wasted. I say we drink this up and I will send to my cousin in Angouleme for more. Will you have some more, Artemus?"

Artie didn't answer. He wasn't even looking at his friends now, or the glass in his hands, even though he seemed to stare at it.

"Artemus, what's wrong?" Jeremy asked. "Is another memory coming up now?"

"Not one you don't already know about," Artemus finally said. "We were all talking earlier today about how angry and helpless we've felt since this whole wretched case started; and how it only got worse in one way, when we finally found Jim in that ... horrible place. Well, helpless is the way I've felt from the beginning, furiously angry and helpless. "First, I got word from Shimon Lehrer that he'd connected with some other former Confederates with some strange ideas about making their lives better. Shimon was going to meet some more of those people, he wrote me, in September or October of '71. A few weeks later, Zara, Shimon's wife came up to Washington, saying she'd not heard from Shimon in a fortnight, and that was not at all like him. Zara was right; Shimon was an habitual letter writer. He wrote to her every single day when he wasn't home in Augusta, during the War and after."

"Then word came that someone knew where Shimon was," Jeremy added somberly. "Somewhere down in Alexandria. So you went looking."

"Yeah, yeah, I did," Artemus muttered. "Some days I honestly wish I hadn't found him; but no one deserves to be left the way those fatherless sons left Shimon. So, I cut him down and took him home to Zara and their family. I think half of Augusta turned out for that memorial, not just the Lehrer's closest friends and kin, but people from all across the city. "They knew he was a good, a very good man. They knew he was a rabbinical student before the War. They knew he cherished that town and eastern Georgia as much as they did. They also knew Shimon and Zara had never and would never indulge in the kind of intolerance and hatred that got him murdered, that he was dead because of the insane, wretched, evil in the hearts of the men who killed him, and for no other reason. They didn't know, because Shimon didn't exactly advertise his working with me from time to time, that Shimon Lehrer was also murdered because of our friendship!"

"I thought you were listening, Friend when I asked you to take it easy for a minute," Jeremy said. "Sit back, sit back a minute and take it easy before you do have a heart seizure!"

"Would that be any worse than what Jim's already been through, Jere? Would it?" Artie asked, looking at his long time friend for any answer Pike might have.

"It would be worse for us, Friend," Jeremy said. "If not now, then later on, it would be a lot worse."

"Later on?" Artemus asked. "You lost me on that turn, Jere."

"I'm talking about later on, when Jim's well again, G-d willing. That's when it will be a lot worse for the rest of us having to tell him we let you collapse with a fatal heart seizure. If you want to talk about someone feeling helpless, imagine how Jim would feel then." Jeremy answered bluntly.

From looking at Jeremy and starting to shake his head, Artie suddenly froze in place, staring at the empty air between him and the opposite gold settee. His eyes grew wider by the minute, their gaze fixed now. His mouth worked soundlessly and his whole frame seemed locked in a rigid posture.

"Artemus, Artie, que es que c'est? T' m' respond, mon ami, Artemus!" Jacques cried out.

_"Helpless, he will be lying in the dust of the street, helpless, stunned and bewildered by the events swirling around …him, around you both, …He will be lying there, dying, already wounded by Grant's detail, dying and look up…look up at you and …smile, again, and die, with' thanks, Artie, thanks, partner' for your coup de gras, as the last words on his lips. I, Herr Professor Doctor Stefan Johannes Sebaastien Aynsley of Amsterdam, Zurich, Berlin, Zagreb, Bucharest, and Vien, promise you West will die, thanking you for ending his life. '' Artie_ was chanting, reciting, and completely oblivious to his companions.

_''He will die, at your hand, and you will tell the crowd that day, and on many more days to follow, how you put an end to the dishonored life and broken career of yet another mad assassin. You will be praised, you will be honored, and the government will cite you_ _for your service_

"_You will know, for the rest of your life that you took the only course possible, the only course possible…The only way…because it was what he wanted, would have asked, would have pleaded with you to do, as his friend, as his very good friend and partner…to erase his guilt, his dishonor, his disgrace, and his shame …_

"_To spare, his family the horror of his trial for treason, the grief of his execution as an assassin…to spare him their tears and their humiliation Do you understand …do you understand you will shoot him down, you, Artemus Aurelius Marcus Gordon, and he will thank you, as he dies, the assassin of Ulysses Simpson Grant, the assassin, James Kiernan Torrance West.'' _

"Artemus," Jacques said in a softer tone, "Artemus, you are recalling something that never happened, a false memory, a cruel prediction, something that was patterned into your mind and memory…. Yet it did not happen. It did not happen! So, listen to me.

We are not in this Professor Stefan Aynsley's home, nor in his laboratory, nor anywhere near it. We are on the train we have used as our headquarters for nine years or so. We are on the train, on a siding outside Washington's main railroad station. This is not December 1871, non, but February, 1874. Moreover, James did not kill M'sieur Grant, and neither did you kill James West. Come then, listen to me…Artemus…"

"What in the bloody hell …Oh my dear G-d!" Artie whispered, hoarsely, as if he'd talking for hours. "I was right before! I was set up to kill Jim! Those bastards set me on track to murder my best friend in the world!"

"Mais, you did not do so, Artemus. Take this down, mon ami." Jacques reassured the older man, handing him a glass with some brandy in it. "You did not harm James at all, any more than he harmed the President, that day, or on any day since! What our enemies in all this wanted, never happened, it never happened at all."

"Only, it could have, Jacques! Jere, my G-d! I could have shot Jim down the same way those soldiers shot Booth." Artemus drank the liquor, and then put one strong hand up to his mouth now, as if to keep the words in. "What did you do, just then? What were you doing? I wasn't just remembering that, I was there, I was back there…tied or strapped down and dizzy with lack of sleep and …''

'' Mon ami, I did nothing, _non, rien._ Your own tremendous strength and your great will to do anything you may to help James brought these memories, harsh as they are, frightening as they must be, back when we have such need … such great need to know all we can of our enemies methods. '' Jacques said, trying again to reassure the older agent.

"I would add that you've given us a name to go on, Artemus," Jeremy said, " We thought it was an alias, Friend, the name given by the man who abandoned Jim at that asylum. Only you were just reciting from a pretty ugly session you had with a man named Stefan Aynsley.

"Jere, Jacques, I don't think you're hearing me," Artie protested again. "I don't think you understand what I just ... remembered. Those murderers set me on a path to do just what they wanted. They wanted Jim dead as soon as possible after he killed the President; and they wanted someone to take care of that little task that would never be suspected of any motive but compassion and mercy.

"I could have done just that, don't you see now? Any time in the past two years or so, I could have killed Jim West, just as those cowards, those monsters on two legs wanted! So, I can't go to Baltimore, at least I can't go anywhere near that asylum again, anywhere near Jim again, no matter where he is, not again, not any longer! If you have to call out the Navy, the Army and the Coast Guard, you can't let me go back to see Jim again! You can't let me anywhere near the man! You can't! You can't, and you both have to promise, you both have to swear to me that you won't... you won't let me... you have to swear..."

"Non, non, mon ami," Jacques answered, while Jeremy pressed his hand to Artemus' shoulder in a gesture of support. "C'est impossible. Impossible, tu comprends? If I believed for un moment that you could do as those enfants du Carême wanted, I would deny you access to our jeune frere. We all would.

"Mais, you have done no such thing, in all the time since we found James, you have done nothing of the kind. You know that. What have you done in all this time? You have argued, you have pondered, you have sought for our adversaries, you have gone to see James a dozen times and more, non?

"Yet you have not harmed one hair on his head. It is no more possible for you to harm James than it was for him to do the least harm to M'sieur Grant. Our adversaries were so wrong regarding both you and James on that score as to ruin their plot before it could come to fruition. Therefore, let's go on now. Tell us the rest of what you've remembered."

The rest of that evening, that night and for three days after, Jeremy, Artemus, and Jacques worked through the puzzle pieces emerging from Gordon's memory. Before they stopped, all three agents were saddened and revolted at the cruelty used against Artemus and then against James West, as well as what little Artemus had been able to glean about the men who preceded him in Aynsley's laboratory.

They were cheered to a lesser extent because they'd learned things it was clear the conspirators wanted hidden away in the graves of their victims forever. They were relieved to a greater extent because new information on this bizarre case meant new leads to follow and more possibilities to bring the conspirators to justice. It was a sober trio of agents, however who reported their latest findings to Macquillan, Richmond, the Director and the President. The case was not solved, after over three years time. The conspirators were not found, much less awaiting trial; and James West was still hidden away from his friends, and kin within a small, scared, sick little boy, whose blind eyes were still full of fear and pain.

WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

SCENE SEVEN

AYNSLEY'S MANSION AND LABORATORY

THE Rosenburg,

12 MILES NORTH OF BALTIMORE,

FEBRUARY-JULY, 1872

Pain was the core of his universe and its boundaries were built of fear. Pain was all he saw, heard, and touched, all he knew or discerned. Sight was pain, as was sound; and the least pressure was pain burning along every raw nerve. He neither thought nor felt in terms of anything but his pain and his fear of more pain.

Fear impelled his every step through this universe of pain. Fear lit the stern limits of his world. No thought, no impulse, no slightest word, or deed moved him except for the motive; fear. Sheer terror waited like a ravening st just beyond that universe' end. Nothing else affected him. Nothing, including time changed within the tortured universe of his mind.

He had been a vigorously healthy, athletic man, self-assured and even-tempered. Twenty-seven and a half years old when he came to Aynsley's laboratory, with a muscular natural boxer's build, powerful shoulders, arms and legs and torso. Weakened in childhood by bouts of bronchitis, scarlet and rheumatic fever, he fought back to become healthier than many of his contemporaries. He was in his own words, fairly good looking, with chiseled features ring evidence of a life spent largely horseback riding, foot racing, sailing, or tramping in the outdoors.

Naturally quick to learn, he passed one battery of rigorous tests after another with high marks at one prep school after another, in his quest to enter and graduate from West Point. Clear eyed and quietly observant, he was a good judge of character with an ear for music and languages only a somewhat less than Artemus'. More than that, the people who knew this young man would say he was gifted with great joie de vivre, love for a challenge, and a fine sense of perspective that occasionally expressed itself in joking with his siblings and cousins, his schoolmates, campmates and fellow agents.

Now, as six months time in Aynsley's laboratory went on, this same man was a fearful, all but irrational creature without intellect or memory. As the winter of 1871-72, turned towards spring, the latest prisoner-subject in Aynsley's laboratory was little more than a caricature of his former self.

To that end, he was constantly tortured, physically and emotionally. He was restrained, isolated, beaten, torn from his sense of reality, his loyalties, and his strongest certainties. He was mocked, degraded, abused, and humiliated to the point of self-loathing, and past that, approaching a suicidal depression.

Still he was not yet what his tormentors wanted. He was their creature, helpless to fend them off, unable to escape them. He had been stripped of his own will, the last vestiges of identity that held him from the will of his captors. He was not yet their weapon, fitted to their violent purpose.

To rob his subject of identity, true memory and his strong will, Stefan Aynsley used means in combination that separately were not torture at all.

He made deprivation, confusion, and confinement the permanent conditions of his subject's bizarre existence. Thus, his captor-tormentor gave that subject no other name. He was merely Subject

419 in this nightmare place and time.

He was allowed no sleep, or food, or clothing during the early testing. Next, he was chained like a mad dog or a wild animal in a steel cage too low to stand up in and too narrow to stretch out. While trapped in that fashion, the subject was further abused, as if he were a rabid dog or a rogue mountain lion. Their object was the destruction of the subject's building blocks of mind, memory, identity, and character. Their goal was the erasure of vital memories from his childhood, adolescence, and manhood. Their ultimate intent was to distort, fragment, and replace the subject's memories to a new and violent purpose.

Taken from the cage the subject was next locked in a chamber the diameter and depth of a farmhouse well. There he was shut away from sound, from scent, from light, from warmth, from touch, from any familiar sensation. At all times, when he was not being tested, or rather, tormented, the subject was closely confined and guarded, as if he were already the lunatic his captors wanted. Gradually the subject became tense as a coiled spring and wholly disoriented to the world around him. After weeks that seemed like years, the subject was very close to madness.

When the subject longed to rest, he was forced to move endlessly through a maze he was to learn by rote. When he hoped for a moment's peace, he was tested on numerous strange memorization tasks and then denigrated at each failure. When he was numb with exhaustion, wishing for any escape from this torture, the subject was instructed over and over that accepting the will of his tormentor was his only escape now.

Exhaustion shook him like a fever, yet he was long past the point of being able to fall asleep. What sleep he was permitted to have was broken and disjointed by nightmares crafted from Aynsley's skillful hypnosis. Within the first several months, the subject was helpless to fight off such hypnosis. In addition, he was no longer rational enough to realize that Aynsley and Liesl both were using hypnosis, pain, isolation, and disorientation and mind-numbing drugs against him.

Aynsley began as he had hundreds of times before over the past six years, with the current subject's most vivid war memories. Pulling the worst of those memories from West like sore teeth, Aynsley distorted, shattered, and rebuilt the pain, the remorse, and the doubts of this or any soldier involved in a 'war of brothers'. Warring on men who were their peers and his kin, in the countryside many of them grew up in had given a whole generation of men on both sides nightmares enough for the next hundred and fifty years.

Aynsley took what was already the most horrific four years in his subject's life and amplified the shock, the grief, the remorse, and the sense of appalling waste. Second Bull Run, South Mountain, Antietam, and Fredericksburg all were fought again in the subject's tormented imagination. The sieges of Jackson, Vicksburg, and Knoxville, the latter with the Unionists trapped inside by Longstreet's Corps reemerged in Aynsley's laboratory to grieve and shock the subject again. Battles at the Wilderness, Spottslyvania, North Anna River, Totopotomoy, and Cold Harbor were reawakened in fire and blood beyond their awful reality.

The subject, who fought and survived these battles and a score of firefights and skirmishes besides could not withstand Aynsley's version of the War. In the researcher's process of torture mixed with drugs and mesmerism each battle became bloodier, more chaotic, and even more wasteful. Aynsley did not intend that his present subject, who had been James Kiernan Torrance West, should survive the war of phantasms and self-loathing being woven all around him.

The subject woke up from these hypnotic terrors racked with guilt, outrage, confusion, and anguish. Worse, he woke with Aynsley's distortions planted deeply in his brain. They were more real, more vivid, and more painful than reality itself. He had no choice but to believe in the nightmare-war now. Aynsley would not allow his subject anything else to believe.

Thus Subject #419 came to a crucial point: Driven from the hell of the actual War into the hell of Aynsley's making, the subject lost hold of his own war memories, bitter as they were. Instead, he lived an inversion of all pride, all certainty, and all belief in the role he and those like him played in the War. Now he saw, heard, felt, knew nothing but the rabid violence, the insatiable destruction, the bitter hatreds and the terrible waste.

Second Bull Run became a ludicrous debacle

from this nightmare perspective. Pope's bragging about defeating Lee and Jackson proved as empty as his supply depot there. Aynsley's nightmare-Bull Run took that defeat from a shame to a bitter outrage in his subject's vulnerable mind. Antietam transmogrified into a horrible fraud of so called victory. The sunken road, the cornfields, the bridge of over Antietam Creek became even bloodier, more confused, more worthless places for Unionists to die. Fredericksburg, reappeared as the purest horror, sprung from the blind, worthless rivalry and pride of commanders who would not see and redeem their deadly follies. Another sunken road, riflemen lined up below, and artillery above made another killing ground for wave after wave of soldiers in blue. Already a nightmare in the subject's mind, Aynsley found this battle particularly rich soil for remorse, reproach, and bitter outrage.

Jackson, Mississippi, which in reality had fallen with little resistance, now, appeared as a disaster of cruelty. The campaign to reach and lay siege to Vicksburg transformed into a morass of costly battles and wasted chances, a trench-city of sickness and shelling outside the walls and a ghost town of starving wraiths when the gates finally opened. Five thousand Union troops being trapped in Knoxville the following winter became an endless struggle with illness and starvation instead of a fortnight's rough patch.

All that remained for Aynsley to work against the memories of his present subject were in reality three of the most horrific battles of the War. The Wilderness, scene of Lee's triumph and Jackson's death at Chancellorsville was turned into an inescapable inferno by misfired artillery shells. The battle itself was no strong victory for either side, but Longstreet's wounding was a deciding point taking him away from Lee's Army for months. Spottsylvania Court House, where for a second time Lee's Army had time to build earthworks including a V shaped salient, proved the war's commanders were learning the deadly art of defense. Cold Harbor, where Lee's entrenchments meant the death of 3,000 Union troops in one day, many of them trapped between the lines, was another battleground horrid enough in reality to make its survivors cringe. This made it easy for Aynsley to rework it as a place of horrible shame.

In all these cases, Stefan Aynsley worked with harsh determination to make his subject's worst memories worse by a magnitude. Even when wholly rational James West would have agreed that battle plans can be flawed and commanders over proud or careless. Now, as Aynsley's subject #419, he had no self-esteem and no compassion left to separate failures from disasters, mistakes from wrongdoing, and misjudgments from calculations. This condition was one of Aynsley's major goals, meant to eventually focus his subject's outrage, self-reproach, grief, pain, and confusion on the target of Aynsley's justice and Liesl's revenge.

In every nightmare sprung from twisted war memories, the subject who was far from being James West now, found Ulysses Grant the source of each horror. Grant, not McClellan, foolishly chased Lee around northern Virginia. Grant, not Pope marched the Army of the Potomac into Lee's trap at Second Bull Run. Grant, not the generals or politicos in the Eastern theatre of the War announced that the bloody standstill of Antietam was a Union victory. Grant, not Joseph Hooker took his Army into the impassable forests of the Wilderness and stretched out both flanks so dangerously that disaster was all but inevitable. Ulysses Grant, not Ambrose Burnside unyieldingly held to his original plan of attack at Fredericksburg, sending seven waves of Union soldiers against the impregnable defenses of Marye's Heights.

Pushed beyond endurance, driven beyond reason, exhausted past all limits, the subject begged, screamed, fought, and pled for escape. Aynsley had one and only one answer to those pleas, which he repeated incessantly. To alleviate and redeem the suffering, the horror, the mockery, and injustice of the War, one life and only one life must cease. That life, Aynsley coldly insisted stood between thousands of innocents and true justice. That life barred the way to peace. That life by itself was so powerfully symbolic of the War and its evil that only the end of that life could end the War at long last and cut off its suffocating evil.

The owner of that life, Ulysses Simpson Grant must receive a Courier Extraordinaire whose message was Death, whose dispatches were justice and whose task was retribution. Grant must die to allow life to flow back into the South he had crushed. First, however, Grant must hear the appeal of his victims and then their sentence on him. Grant must see, he must acknowledge in the deranged, shattered person of James West, the horrors his continued existence created.

In shaping this dread necessity within his current subject's mind, Aynsley found what he first feared would be an irrevocable barrier, an emotional obstacle he could not touch or move. He found James West's loyalty to those who earned it to be the bedrock of everything West thought, acted on or spoke for. That adamantine loyalty James West gave rarely and only on his own idiosyncratic terms.

At this point in his life, West gave that loyalty to a handful of men: his long time mentor, Thomas Macquillan, Artemus Gordon, Ulysses Grant, and his own late father, Stephen Deniol Mihangel West,

It was Liesl who, when Aynsley had driven himself and his subject to despair working against that loyalty, found a fissure in the bedrock. With the addition of pertinent information provided by Lucien Beauvais, Liesl discovered a damaged corner of the subject's past that had gone unhealed more than twenty years. A decades old memory, buried after a house fire at the Torrance family home west of Norfolk came out in Liesl's hypnotism sessions.

James West had been just days past his sixth birthday when fire destroyed his Torrance grandparent's home. His mother died in the fire, and so did her father, James Torrance, Sr. What Liesl Branoch found interred with this memory was a small boy's misplaced and exaggerated self-reproach for these losses. Just turned six he had no real understanding of cause and effect. Instead Torry West only knew that one evening there was a big party to belatedly celebrate his sixth birthday with a large gathering of cousins and neighbors, and the next morning his momma, his grandpa Jaimey, his baby sister Emmy and his three year old brother Cam were gone forever.

Children's imaginations can be more powerful than their adult counterparts because they have not grasped or exercised an adult's perspective, their understanding of nature's balance, even a sense of how time passes. They have little or no grasp of accidental events and instead tend to blame themselves for things that frighten or hurt them. To a small boy called Torry the loss of his mother was the worst event of his life, and far beyond his understanding.

The boy turned to the person in the world he most loved and needed, his widowed father, Stephen West. Then childishly, Torry mistook Stephen's grieving for anger, his anger for blame, and his blame for rejection of his third born son. He, Torry was somehow to blame for the single most horrible event of his life. He didn't speak of it. He couldn't' reason it out. He could only suppress that part of or his life as he grew, under layers of confusion, sorrow, and alienation.

At age six however, for months after the fire, Torry believed what grief and fear told him. That belief informed the rest of his life, for good and ill. In that mournful time when small Torry began to stammer, to hide, to back away and to suffer from nightmares, the man he would become resolved to redeem an irredeemable failure. He would work tirelessly to recover his father's unshakeable trust, to protect and to rescue whatever persons came into his world, whatever the cost.

Six-year-old Torry believed in his father immovably, which as that small boy meant that Stephen must be right to blame Torry for the terrible night of the fire. As an older boy, longing to have that trust returned, Torry fought back against anything and everything that might block the path to Stephen's love, Stephen's approval, and Stephen's trust. As a youth, a chasm opened between father and son because this submerged memory of supposed alienation seemed as insurmountable as the cliffs south of the Rappahannock.

Torry turned from the father whom one of his oldest memories said had turned from him. Over time without conscious consideration, Torry West put other authority figures and mentors in his father's place. Some of those alternates pleased the older West, such as Thomas Macquillan and Ulysses Grant. Others distressed Stephen to one extent or another, those being Jaimey Torrance, Jim's namesake, George McClellan and although he couldn't say why, Lucien Beauvais.

Father and son were estranged from the time Torry passed the first battery of entrance examinations for an important prep school in Cincinnati at age ten. Stephen was unhappy with the career soldier's life Torry wanted. Other losses and quarrels in the family caused further rifts between them over the next few years. It was only when Torry, mostly called Jim by that time was at West Point that the elder and younger Wests began to rebuild their long ago closeness, and Stephen West died during the War, while caring for thousands of wounded and sick soldiers who came to the hospitals around Norfolk.

Liesl explored the rift between father and son in minute detail. Born of West's oldest nightmare, she found it a richly fallow ground for doubts, for mourning, for remorse and for bitter self-loathing. After working on this exploration for over a month that early spring of 1872, Liesl, wildly excited, called Aynsley to watch her demonstrate the subject's worst vulnerability, precisely where his greatest strength seemed to lie.

"Fire," Liesl said, slowly, soothingly, holding out

an intricately filigreed gold ring, set with a fiery Ceylonese sapphire or padparascha on a long, black velvet cord around her neck. "Do you see? Do you see the fire? There, in the stone, do you see the fire now?"

"Fire," the entranced subject echoed flatly. "Fire,"

"Fire," the girl's higher, clearer voice repeated. "Look into the fire. Look deeply. It changes. It grows. It leaps and sings like a child. Do you see?"

"Child," the subject echoed, with a new note of tension in his voice. "Child, in fire?"

"Yes, the child plays with the fire, do you see? Fire warms his face and stings his hands. His hands and face are orange, like the fire, do you see? His eyes are green sparks. His hair is brown as the wood. Do you see? He is a child of the fire." Liesl went on.

"Child of Fire," the subject chanted. "Child of Fire."

"Yes, yes," the higher voice agreed, growing shrill now. "Child of the Flames. See how he leaps, sings, and grows? Like a child, do you see?"

"Child of Fire, fire, fire, fire's child. Fire," the hypnotized subject went on chanting, his voice taking on a knife-edged hysteria. Then the shrill voice sought to ease that fear for a moment.

"The fire is lovely, see how it lights and shadows everything around it? The child does not fear the fire. He plays in it. The fire is beautiful, do you see? The fire is beautiful and the child of fire is..."

"Beautiful, fire's child, beautiful, fire's child, fire's child," the subject murmured. One with the phantasm-child his entrance brain saw so vividly, the subject reached eagerly for the fire, deep within the faceted stone on Liesl's ring. The subject knew nothing of rings or sapphires any longer. He knew only a mad impulse to grasp the fire.

"Liesl, this is not to the point," Aynsley protested. "Where is the marvel you promised? I am aware that the subject has lost his defenses against hypnotism."

"That is not all, Uncle, please!" the girl begged, whirling to face the researcher.

The hypnotized subject meanwhile lurched forward, and fell face down on the floor, grasping at illusory fire.

"Is it not, indeed, Herr Professor Doctor Branoch? Pray, continue!" Aynsley growled, thoroughly frustrated by months of inquiry with the creature that had been James West.

"Danke schoen, Herr Professor Doktor Aynsley, I shall!" Liesl answered with manic glee. Turning away, she knelt beside the subject, who lay rubbing avidly at the floor, now brightly afire in his deranged vision.

"Are you the child in the flames, the fire's lovely child?" she asked.

"Fire's child," the subject answered without looking at Liesl or the ring now. "Fire's child. Fire's child."

"What is your name, child of fire? Tell me!"

"...Name... name... n-n-name? I...I... I'm... 'm Torry." the subject's voice changed profoundly with that admission, becoming small and solemn. Lifting his head, he stared with fever bright green eyes, wide as teacups, not at Liesl, but at Stefan Aynsley.

"Poppa," he whispered. "I'm your Torry, Poppa."

"Indeed?" Aynsley said to no one, and sat in the winged chair by the wood stove in this attic room.

"How old are you now, Torry?" Liesl asked, continuing her demonstration with barely controlled excitement.

"I'm six!" the hypnotized subject replied, still in a child's voice full of indignation. "I was just five... th' other day... only I'm six, now."

"You were playing in the fire, weren't you, Torry?" Liesl suggested, smiling as she twisted the memory like a dagger. "You were playing in the fire, weren't you? Where did the fire come from, Torry?"

"I ... I ... I ... No! No! N-n-n-n-no!" the subject screamed, staring only at Stefan, squirming away from the imaginary fire on the floor now. "Wasn't! Wasn't! Wasn't! Wasn't! Dunno, dunno, dunno, dunno, Poppa! Dunno where, Poppa! Please, Poppa, please!"

"Hush," Aynsley ordered, intervening and lifting the subject to a chair beside his own. "Be still a moment. Be still a moment, Torry and then tell the truth. You must tell me, Torry all about the fire. Why does it frighten you so, Torry? You must tell me."

"Yes, yes, yes, Poppa," the maddened subject replied. "I was... wasn't, wasn't, wasn't... wasn't playin' there, Poppa! Wasn't! Wasn't never playin' there, Poppa! Wasn't! Wasn't!"

"Still you must tell me about the fire, Torry. Tell me all about the fire. Where was the fire, Torry?" Aynsley demanded.

The deep, compelling voice was never to be disobeyed. Even at the point of collapsing, the subject-child knew that. Even though fear shook the subject like a high fever, he answered.

"In the straw, Poppa. Was all in the new straw, scratchy and sweet and shiny new straw, Poppa, all the way up and up... all the way up and up..."

"In the stables, Torry?" Aynsley asked, using his own information from Beauvais now. "The fire was in the new straw stacked in the stables, was it?"

"Ummm...ummm... dunno, Poppa, dunno!" the fearful child replied, wriggling and shifting on the wooden chair where Aynsley set him. "Wasn't playin' there, Poppa! Wasn't! Can't go on in there, in the... in the old barn for ponies, Poppa, Torry can't go in there! Torry don't ... Torry can't go in there, cause the mommas are havin' their baby ponies, Poppa... cause Torry can't go in there, don't go in there, Torry... "

"Then how do you know about the fire, Torry?" Aynsley went on, encouraged and wary at the same time.

"Tell me the truth, Torry. You must, always."

"Yes, yes, yes, Poppa," the subject-child nodded. "Granmomma, she said there was so many much new straw, Poppa. Granmomma she said a lantern falled down there, Poppa...Granmomma said a lantern falled down there, licked up all the new straw, and went up whoosh! Like a splosion, Poppa, and woked ev'body up then!

"So, so Unc Jaimey comed and carried Torry Little and Jeanny Little, and Pauly Little out all to the yard, Poppa. Unc Morgan comed and carried Rae Little and Robby Little, and Owen Little and Meggy, Torry Littles bestest twin sister, and ... and Torry's ovver couzns... We went out all to the yard, Poppa an' the shed was all fire, and the top of the old barn for ponies was all fire,

"And the ponies and their mommas comed runnin' out and the old great biggest hollow oaktree was all fire and falled down on Granmomma's house. So them chimnees falled down swoosh an' the wall falled down next to the chimnees, an' the steps to upstairs falled down... an'... all the...the steps falled down with a biggest, biggest, biggest ever crashing

sound and..."

Pure horror filled the child-subject's face now, as the worst of the distorted memory touched him. He shook his dark head in abject denial. Aynsley glanced at Liesl who smiled as proudly as if a student of hers had recited the table of elements without a mistake.

"Torry, you haven't finished telling your Poppa all about the fire, have you? You haven't finished telling your Poppa why he and Uncle Jaimey and Uncle Morgan went back inside the house then, have you?"

"N-n-n-n-n-no," the child protested, wildly shaking his head.

"Why, Torry, why did they go back? Tell him."

"Dunno! Dunno, dunno, dunno, Poppa!" the child wailed, curling up on himself like a newborn.

"No, no, Torry, you must tell the truth now. Tell the truth to your Poppa," Liesl commanded. The harsher her voice, the more the subject had to obey it, and the mad girl knew it.

Eyes wider than ever, without a glance for the tormenting girl, the child struggled visibly for seconds. Then he went on, trapped in this bitterly distorted nightmare.

"Granmomma, Granmomma said some peoples can't come on out of the door to the yard, Poppa! them steps are all falled down now, so they can't... Granmomma says Granpoppy went up to the old attic... but them steps are all falled down too! Granmomma says Torry's momma...Torry's momma..."

"Who else was upstairs that evening, Torry?" Aynsley asked, rejoining the process that fascinated and astonished him. "Who else was upstairs when the stables caught fire? Tell me, Torry; and tell me who was supposed to be upstairs already that evening. Tell me, Torry."

Shaking, sobbing, with his mouth working soundlessly for a long moment, the child finally answered miserably.

"Torry, Torry, Torry was s'posed to be gone up the stairs at evening, Poppa. Torry was s'posed to be going up the stairs...with... with... with... with...Momma, at evening, Poppa.

"Only, only, only it was a party, Poppa! It was a party for Torry having a birthday, Poppa! So, so, so Torry don't want t' go on up t' bed at the party, Poppa! So, so, so, Momma... Momma and Granpoppy said no, no, Torry don't have to go on up to bed same like always... So, so, so Granpoppy and. and ... Momma went up the stairs then, Poppa...with no Torry Little..."

"Then the fire got so much bigger, didn't it, Torry?" Liesl demanded. "The oak tree fell, the roof started to burn, the upstairs caught fire... and the stairs fell. Why did the fire grow so big, Torry? Why did the fire grow so big to knock down so much of Granmomma's house, Torry? How could it grow so big?"

"Dunno, dunno, dunno, dunno!" the child screamed. "Fire...fire eated up all them new straw, Poppa! Then it went up; swoosh, like a splosion, Poppa! Then it falled down the hollow old oak tree, then ... the steps in Granmomma's house all falled down, Poppa! Then ev'body wasn't outside in the yard, Poppa, Granpoppy wasn't outside in the yard, Poppa and...

"And ... and... no, no, no, no.. Uncl' Jaimey an'... Uncl Morginn, an'... an'... they comed an' was carryin'... they was carryin'... no, no, ... no, no, no, no, no, that's not my Momma! That's not my Momma!

That's not my Momma! That's not my Momma! That's not Torry Littles', Rae's, Meggy's, Merey's, ... that's not our Momma! Please, Poppa, please, please, please, Poppa! Please, please, please, Poppa, that's not ... Torry wasn't... Torry wasn't... please, please, Poppa!"

Aynsley remained coldly silent now and gave Liesl a forbidding glance to keep her still. As they watched, the maddened child-man screamed until his voice was almost gone, along with his reason. The very silence of those watching, which included Lucien Beauvais, from behind a Chinese screen in one corner, served to exacerbate the subject's cries, his bewilderment, his grieving pain. Not one of the trio of torturers offered a word, a sign or a gesture of comfort. They had reached, after nearly four months work, the first of their goals for this subject.

His mind, reduced to a child's, now shattered at their cold indifference. His heart, strained past exhaustion, broke, as Stefan Aynsley appeared to mirror and magnify Stephen West's pain of years before. Aynsley, Beauvais, and Liesl had no intention of mending either this mind or heart. Instead, they set to work at once, to make a chasm of the fissure Liesl found, and a poisoned wound of a decades-old scar. It took almost no time, compared to what went before that night's work. The child called Torry vanished for days and weeks at a time now. The man called James West disappeared to all intents and purposes. Only the Courier Beauvais, Aynsley, and Liesl Branoch long sought for remained.

So, it was that Courier, a mindless, heartless creature Aynsley now built from the remnants of James West emerged. The creature looked, sounded, and moved as West had; but he reacted, spoke, even thought as Aynsley commanded. Every element that informed built on and strengthened the whole man; mind, memory, heart, and will were maimed, mutilated, and sternly manipulated as the endeavor continued. Everything the formerly sane man knew, learned, or felt now turned to Aynsley's purpose. No other purpose and no other reality existed for the mad creature.

As he altered his subject, Aynsley changed himself. To assure the success of his work, the researcher used everything Liesl had learned, everything the subject revealed and everything Beauvais already knew, to build another mental construct. Within

the subject's ruined mind, Aynsley built a father/mentor/authority figure the creature had no choice but to obey. Using elements of himself, and three recipients of West's loyalties, Aynsley made his subject see an entity he could no more disobey than he could swim the Atlantic. The researcher ignored other influential people in West's life and rigorously trained his subject to avoid them.

It was an estranged father figure the researcher wanted motivating his subject now, a flawed authority figure, and an avuncular friend. By the time the main work of their endeavor was finished, Aynsley, Beauvais, and Liesl Branoch had created two beings, their subject, and the phantasm father-leader-uncle he would follow. The former was no longer and in some ways would never again be James Kiernan Torrance West. The latter was an amalgam of Stefan Aynsley, Stephen West, Artemus Gordon, and Ulysses Grant.

When the inquiry was complete, Aynsley made ready to send his heartless, mindless caricature of James West first to Gordon, and then to Grant. His subject would remain with Gordon just long enough to stir the other agent's fears and suspicions. Leaving Gordon, the subject would attend a long planned meeting with Grant, just long enough to work out the final pattern of loyalty, honor, and filial love all disastrously rejected beyond any hope.

Satisfied with his preparations as the subject technically passed his twenty-eighth birthday, Aynsley put the mad creature through a complex emotional maze, to an impasse.

"You are my Courier," Stephen intoned.

"Courier," the subject echoed, barely capable of understanding. He stood like a soldier called to attention, except that he reacted only to what Aynsley said.

"You carry a vital message," Aynsley went on.

"Message,"

"You shall first deliver a crucial petition,"

"Petition,"

"You shall second deliver a terrible warning,"

"Warning,"

"You shall finally deliver an ultimatum,"

"Finally, ultimatum,"

"You shall first ask for a reply."

"Ask a reply,"

"You shall then demand a response."

"Demand response,"

"You shall insist on stating our final terms."

"Final terms,"

"Now, Courier, I will instruct you on what to expect from your hearer, who must be Ulysses Grant and no other."

"Must be Grant."

"Grant will at first ignore your message and set aside your petition. Then he will coerce you to refute it. Finally, he will reject our petition and you out of hand. He will scorn, denigrate, and abuse the honor of your mission. He will deny the truth of your message. He will mock the inescapable consequences of his own proud folly. You, Courier, will again make those consequences clear."

"Make clear."

"You will insist that he hear the final terms of your message."

"Hear final terms."

"You will explain that no other terms can be accepted."

"No other accepted."

"You will complete your mission, Courier, and with all due haste, depart."

"Complete and depart."

"Now, Courier, tell me what the completion of your mission is to be."

Despite all tortures and controls, the subject trembled at this demand. Even Stefan Aynsley shuddered at his own success; while Liesl smiled blandly at the subject and Lucien Beauvais grinned like a crocodile about to bite.

Flatly, coldly then, Courier replied. "Terms are final. Completion of terms is death, his death, his..."

"Whose death, Courier?" Aynsley prodded.

"Grant's... Grant's death, Grant's death."

WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

SCENE EIGHT

BALTIMORE COUNTY ASYLUM

INFIRMARY,

MARCH 1874

Death was a common factor in the wards of the over-crowded asylum. In the rainy fall and winter month's fevers of many kinds swept like enfilading fire. Many inmates died during fever season, unable to fight both madness and physical illness.

Jacques D'eglisier and Artemus Gordon went to the asylum more than a dozen times that fall and winter. At one point, they found Torry shivering and suffering with malaria, with Miguel nursing the child-man. On another visit it was the child trying pathetically and fearfully to care for his small friend.

D'eglisier, Jeremy Pike and other agents who also happened to be physicians, such as Jeremy's young cousin Danny Hoffner and Jacques' Montrealer protégé, Etienne Morin protested vigorously to the director, to the city and county health departments, to the legislature and Maryland's senators and Congressmen. The physicians wanted, at the very least to see fever patients isolated in a separate ward.

The director and other board members called such an idea impractical to the point of impossibility. There was no separate ward to put fever patients in, they claimed; and they had nowhere near enough funds, or guards and attendants to deal with disrupting the entire facility, moving fever patients back and forth.

Artemus, who in his own words had done enough 'partner patching to qualify for an M.D.' went back to the asylum at this point, impersonating a State Inspector, and demanding improved conditions. The asylum's officials flatly refused to meet his demands. By doing so, they were forced to admit that the State of Maryland, the county and city of Baltimore provided no funding whatever to the asylum.

Finally, a higher level of political pressure was brought to bear and the officials compromised. A pair of otherwise unused storage rooms next to the infirmary were revealed, much to the director's astonishment, cleared out and cleaned as the team of visiting doctors demanded. These were designated for the use of said doctors, including Jeremy and Jacques who volunteered their services and their time.

While those renovations were going on, Artemus and Jacques made another visit to the main ward. They found Torry building himself into hysterics because Miguel had once more come down with a lung infection and fever, and had been carried to the infirmary.

"Where'd Miguel go, Jac? Where'd them people taked Miguel now, Demos? Where'd them go?" the child-man pleaded, clinging to and pulling on each agent's coat by turns. He was too worked up to be as shy as usual. He was too frightened to be anything but a little boy.

'Demos' was Artemus Gordon, using a code name he'd hoped Jim West would recognize. Torry unfortunately did not know Artemus by any name, which fact dismayed the agent and grieved him.

"Where'd them go, Jac? Where'd them taked Miguel, Demos? Torry can't find Miguel now days and days and days now! Torry can't find Miguel! Torry can't hear Miguel anywhere now! Where..."

"Torry, Torry, mon enfant, listen to me, ecoutez- moi, s'il vous plait." Jacques soothed, noting, as Artemus did that the child seemed to pick up on the French as easily as words in English. Jim's ear for language, which he always credited to working with Artie, was plainly his own natural skill.

"I know where Miguel is, mon enfant; and I can take you up there, if you will be calm. Be calm un moment, non?"

Tears leftover from his panic streaming down his face, nearly voiceless from his cries, Torry finally managed to nod.

"I'm being ... calm... Jac... what's that, Jac? What's calm?"

"It means you take some deep... some big breaths, Torry and let them go slowly, comme ca," Jacques said, matching his actions to his words. "Then you let the big breaths push the fright out, when you push the breaths out again, comprends tu."

Torry followed suit, filling his chest and his thin face with one slow breath at a time, then driving the air out again, and doing his best not to cough.

"I'm being that... calm now, Jac. Demos, Torry's being that ... calm now. Where'd they be taked Miguel, please?"

"He's up in the infirmary, Torry," Demos answered, swallowing a groan as the child's dependence on the doctor was made plain, again.

"That's why you couldn't find him; but Jacques will take up ... I'd say the lift would do better just now than the stairs, wouldn't you, Jacques?"

"Oui, mon ami, " Jacques agreed. "Torry, you and I shall go up to the infirmary by the lift, as soon as I have the permission of the guard here. Sit here and wait for me, Torry, just a moment."

"I'm waiting now, Jac," Torry agreed, listening intently as the Montrealer spoke with a guard and 'Demos' started up the stairs.

"We'll go up in the lift in another moment, Torry," Jacques said, "You must keep on being calm, so that your cough doesn't come back, non?"

"Why'd them taked Miguel, Jac?" the child demanded to know. "Why'd them people taked Miguel away?"

"I thought you understood that, mon enfant," Jacques said, a little astonished himself at the care Torry showed for the doctor. "Ecoutez-moi, Miguel is, you know, smaller than you, oui? Well he has now this fever, as you did some weeks ago; and it is harder for Miguel, being smaller, comprends-tu?"

"Cos he tookt care of me!" Torry wailed, full of remorse that Jacques was amazed by again.

"Non, non, Torry. Miguel has the fever because so many here have it as well. It can be easily caught. So, it was not a bad thing at all but a good one that Miguel went to the infirmary, where now doctors are working every day. Now, you must wait here another moment, mon enfant, I will tell Demos we are coming." Jacques said, and pulled a pneumatic tube from its frame by the lift.

"It will take another ten minutes or so, mon ami, if the lift works properly. Torry has always been afraid to go near the stairs here, and I've yet to find out why."

"You're sure Jim isn't feverish again, aren't you, Jacques?" Artemus asked.

"Non, he only wants to be with Miguel again, very much."

"I know," Artemus said and set the tube back in its frame on the upper floor. Turning away from the device, the agent found the man he could only call Miguelito Loveless watching him intently.

"They're coming up?" Miguel asked, almost perching on one side of his cot.

"Yes, by the lift. Jim can hardly wait He ... depends very much on you, Doctor. I suppose you intended just that, all along, right." Artemus asked, looking away from Miguel again.

"Of course I did," Miguel answered, calmly, deliberately, shocking the agent. "How can I help Torry if he can't depend on me?"

"How can you? Doctor, just how have you helped Jim in all these months? You say he's improved. Jacques says he's recovering. Thomas says he's getting better. Well all I see is a blinded, terrified, sick little boy!" Feeling sick himself, Artemus let months of frustration loose on the doctor, unable to keep it back any longer.

"Then, Mr. Gordon, you are as blind as Torry, with one important difference. Torry cannot help that he's blind, that he's been abused and terrified for nearly two years in this vile place, or that he's a child again, a sick, frightened child. Even so, Torry knows I mean him no harm whatsoever. Why don't you?" Miguel asked, blatantly studying the agent.

Not for the first time since he'd come back to the asylum with Jacques, Artemus felt his temper, his pulse and his blood pressure rising. Every time he saw Loveless here, every time he saw the shattered child his partner had somehow become, Artemus Gordon found himself a number of powerful urges.

He wanted to denounce the doctor as a fraud, as an enemy playing at this alliance. He wanted to force his friends and colleagues to admit Jim's apparent illness was something so impossible there had to be another explanation. He wanted someone to agree with him that a healthy, even natured, grown man like Jim West could not become a child again, and a terrified child at that. And he wanted to rush out of the asylum once and for all, never looking back.

"You always seem to forget, Doctor, that I didn't make this diabolical bargain with you. I wasn't even on this side of the Mississippi at the time!" Artemus pointed out.

"Somehow every time I come here I feel even more strongly that they never should have brought you here. You hate Jim West; you have for years now. He's absolutely vulnerable now, as helpless as an infant. You've tried a dozen times or more to destroy him. So tell me, Doctor, how did you convince my friends and Jim's that this time would be any different?"

"Miguel?" a voice familiar to both men rang through the infirmary now. "Miguel, are you here now? Torry's here now, Miguel! Jac! Where's Miguel? Demos?"

"I'm ...here..." Artemus said, even as Miguel's bright blue eyes seemed to challenge him not to run away.

"I'm here as well, Torry," Miguel said. "Come straight across the room. We cleared the middle for your visit. I'm sitting next to Demos"

"Miguel," Torry said, crossing the long room. "I heard Demos yelling. I came up in the el'vater, with Jac. Did you hear me, Miguel? Did you hear the el'vater?"

"Yes, yes, I did, Torry, and isn't it wonderfully noisy?" Miguel asked, watching as the child stopped half way across the room.

"Now come and sit with me. Demos and I were just talking a bit loudly, I'm afraid. We all want to talk with you, Torry, like we did before.

"Miguel, you got that fever, like I got before now. Jacques told me you gotta stay in th firmeree. Dem peoples, dem ovver doctors they won't let Torry come back..." The child fretted.

"They let you come today, didn't they Torry? So, tomorrow you'll come back again, and every day until I come back to the ward. I'm already much better today, Torry. Come and see. I've no more fever." Miguel suggested.

Grinning, the blind child turned in Miguel's direction, then shuffled towards his companion's voice. Torry reached the doctor's cot more easily than Artemus, Jacques, or Miguel expected. Not even Torry recalled how he'd been ceaselessly drilled to function as a blind man, simply because that was part of one scenario Aynsley worked out. As soon as he found Miguel now, Torry put one hand flat to his friend's forehead. Miguel smiled at the childlike gesture but said nothing.

"You still got some fever, Miguel," Torry declared solemnly. "You gotta stay here in th firmeree. So, Torry will get some more of fever again and stay here, too!" Chuckling happily, Torry grinned and cocked his head, waiting for Miguel to agree.

That chuckle, grin and patient right tilt of the child's head were so familiar to Artemus that he didn't know whether to laugh at it or cry. He wanted to either roar with anger or sob; because Torry's smiling, scarred green eyes were blank, unfocused, blind. Artemus looked at, listened to his damaged friend, and could not believe Jim West would ever see him again.

"No, no, Torry," Miguel was saying. "You must stay well now. No more fever. I'll tell you why. Because of the things our friends Demos and Jacques, Thomas and Francis, Jeremy and Edwin are doing these days, we're going to go away from here, Torry. We're going to leave this horrid place..."

"No, no, no, n-n-n-no!" the child cried out, all his smiles gone, all his fears returned. From leaning on the doctor as he was used to, Torry bolted upright, wide eyed with panic.

"No, no, no, Miguel! No, no, no, Demos! No, no, no, Jac! Please, please, please!"

"What's wrong, Torry?" Miguel asked, and then shook his head, disgusted with himself for forgetting one of the child's terrors.

Reaching for Miguel's hand and clutching it, Torry shook and sobbed for a long time before he could answer.

"Can't go, Miguel! Can't go! Can't go! Torry can't go novver place! Can't go! Torry stay here! Torry stay still! Torry stay quiet! Torry stay here! Torry, stay still! Torry can't go novver place! Please, please, please, please!" the little boy wailed as all three grown men tried to soothe him.

"I'm sorry, Torry," Miguel said. "I am sorry, Torry. I forgot for a moment about your staying here. You did tell me, didn't you, Torry? Did you tell Demos and Jacques about that?"

"Yes, yes, he did." the agents answered together.

"It's been weeks, months since he mentioned that," Artemus offered. "I suppose we forgot about it, too, or hoped that particular ... trouble was gone. Only... Torry, I don't think you told us why you need to stay here." On an impulse that was the polar opposite of the angry, argumentative ones he'd felt for months, the actor-agent took to one knee beside the child on the cot.

"Torry, there is no one here who wants to frighten or hurt you. I think you know that, about Jac and Thomas, about Frank, Jere and Ned, and me... and ... Miguel. You know that, don't you, Torry?" Artemus asked.

"Uh-huh," Torry answered, hiccupping a bit as his sobs receded again.

"So, can you tell Jac and ...Miguel and me why you need to stay in this...scary place? Can you try to tell us about that now?" Artemus asked, feeling as if he saw the child within his best friend for the first time in this moment.

"Poppa," Torry whispered, looking around in blatant fear of being overheard.

Artemus drew back for a moment, thinking the child had identified him as the late Stephen West.

"Torry, do you mean your Poppa told you to stay here?" Artemus asked, glancing at Jacques and Miguel.

"Uh-huh," the child nodded, his eyes welling with tears again. "Poppa told Torry Little stay here, stay here, Torry Little, stay still, stay quiet, stay here, stay here, be 'bedien, stay here. Poppa told Torry Little stay here! Poppa said Torry can't go with him then. Poppa said Torry's gotta stay here... and, and, and Poppa will maybe come on back, take Torry on home!

"Poppa said stay here, Torry, stay here, don't go, don't go, stay here, stay still, stay quiet, be bedien, stay here, don't go. Demos, Poppa can't find his Torry if goes some ovver place! Demos, can't go! Poppa can't find his Torry if goes to novver place! Please, Demos! Please, Please, please, can't go! Can't go!"

Miguel groaned and pulled the child into his arms. There Torry went on sobbing until he was breathless and completely worn down.

Artemus turned away from the child now to gauge Jacques and Miguel's reactions to this declaration. Jacques shook his head in bewilderment and so did the small doctor on the cot. None of the trio, and as far as they knew, not any of their colleagues had won this admission from Torry before.

Stephen West passed away during the third autumn of the War, plainly exhausted and heartbroken by his tireless work with the wounded and dying soldiers that poured into Richmond, Norfolk, and so many other cities in northern Virginia. The only bright spot in that story was that Jim West and his father had reconciled around the time the younger West finished West Point. The colleagues knew it could never have been Stephen West who abandoned the child here. Now they knew it was someone giving a heartless impersonation of Jim's father.

"Torry," Jacques said, straining for calm in his voice and manner. "Mon enfant, when did your pere, your Poppa tell you this?"

"Dunno," Torry said and frowned, time meant very little in his child life. "When we camed here, mebbee, when we camed here, Torry's Poppa and me, Jac. Poppa, Torry's Poppa, he'll maybe come on back, Miguel? He'll maybe come on back?"

"Oh, I..." Miguel hesitated and then said the only thing he could without frightening the child all over again.

"I'm sure he will, I'm sure he will come back, Torry. You're his little boy, after all, aren't you?"

"Torry's Poppa's Torry Little, yes," Torry agreed. "Torry's Poppa's little boy, yes. Torry Little is Poppa's little boy, yes"

Once again, the three colleagues glanced at each other. Here was another cruel twist in the child's memory. When Torry turned six, just before the fire, Elly and Stephen West had four sons, Rhys and Nevan, James/Torry. Rhys died of scarlet fever seven years later. Cam died in the house fire that killed their mother. Nevan died in 1862, while working in a field hospital during the Seven Days' battles in northern Virginia.

"Torry, I'm a bit tired, will you go with Jacques and get your supper now?" Miguel asked.

"You mustn't stay up here all night. You could get that fever back again, and we don't want that at all. We'll talk more tomorrow when you visit me again."

D'eglisier took Torry back to the ward as quickly as possible. Assuring himself that the child had something to eat and was sound asleep, the Montrealer returned to his colleagues. He found Artemus and Miguel in subdued conversation.

"Jacques," Artemus said, "We've been trying since we knew Jim was here to find out who actually committed him in this wretched place. There was no doubt, I thought that... that ...person gave a false name for himself and for Jim. The records here show Jim being committed here in August, two years ago, under the name Jonathan Traherne. They also give the name of the person who came here with Jim, who had the legal papers drawn up as Stefan Johannes Aynsley, M.D, of the Rosenburg Surgery halfway between Baltimore and Washington. You tried to find this Stefan Aynsley, didn't you, Jacques?"

"Mais oui, I did a fair amount of searching for such a doctor, and found not a trace," Jacques agreed. "That only seemed to support the idea that a false identity was used; that there was no Stefan Aynsley anywhere in this region or the rest of the country as far as we could find out."

"What was the name, Jacques? Artemus, what was this villain's name?" Miguel asked.

"Aynsley," Jacques replied.

"No, he means the man's given name, Jacques," Artemus exclaimed. "It was Stefan!"

"Stefan!" Jacques repeated, turning to stare at his colleagues in turn. "Maudit! How could I ignore that?"

"C'est tres simple, mon ami," Miguel replied. "It's too obvious a similarity. Stefan Aynsley masquerading to the child as Stephen West, none of us caught on because this whole case has been so much more complicated than that. Stefan Aynsley's must be this poor excuse for a human being's real name and not a ruse at all. Torry says his Poppa brought him here and sternly instructed him to stay..."

"Of course!" Artemus exclaimed. "Torry, Jim was blinded then, maybe days, maybe only a few hours before they came here. He would have been in horrendous pain and we already know he was not in his right mind. He wouldn't have known his own father from Robert E. Lee!"

The former actor began to pace the width and then the length of the infirmary now. He was putting pieces of the puzzle together that had never seemed to fit before.

"Jacques, listen, listen... Doctor, listen to this: Jim West came to the Carroll House, I told you that, didn't I? We spent ten days there, waiting for the President's plans to gell, regarding his visit to Baltimore. At that point, Jim had been missing for six months, but he didn't seem to know it had been that long."

"Oui, you talked about this, Artemus, what is troubling you about that time now" Jacques asked.

"Only this, and maybe I didn't put it quite this way before; I was watching Jim breaking apart, bit by bit. I tried talking, seriously talking to him about what happened, about where he'd been, about why he dropped out of sight for six months. He either brushed me off or got angry and stomped out.

Now maybe you know as well as Jacques and I do, Doctor, that Jim West losing his temper is almost as rare a hen's teeth."

Miguel nodded and then shrugged. "Actually, Mr. Gordon, if you think of velociraptors as prehistoric hens..."

"Yes, yes, all right, but you understand what I mean," Artemus sighed. "Well Jim and I waited for the President's schedule to be set. Then we waited for the Man to arrive, each hour, if not each minute of that time Jim grew tenser, touchier, and I have to say more worried than I'd ever seen him before. More than once, two or three times at least, Jim made remarks during that time that should have set off alarms in my head. Those remarks and his general behavior were simply not like Jim at all."

Artemus sighed again and pulled the memory scene into his mind.

"Once Jim sat staring at his hands as if they belonged to someone else. He sat like that for a long while, which again is not like Jim at all. Then he looked up at me and said 'Artie, Grant is the greatest man I know. Surely, he's the greatest general I've met; but I'm afraid, I'm a little afraid that I admire him too much. I might think of him too much as a ...second father, too much to see him clearly, as a man."

"James simply called the President 'Grant', do you say?" Jacques asked.

"Exactly," Artemus replied. "That's not, that's just not what Jim does, ever, not even once. We'd been talking about former Confederates though, people who have an entirely different perspective, people who surely don't see President Grant as a great man or a hero. Jim had been dealing with a great many such people while he was out of touch as he put it; and some of them barely suppressed their hatred of President Grant."

"And what more, Artemus?" Jacques probed as Artemus fell silent again.

"Uh? Oh, well during the last couple of nights before the President arrived, Jim and I talked about a lot of things; but in all that time, all those ten days or so, Jim never used the words 'President Grant'. The General, he'd say, or General Grant, or just Grant. The last night...that last night, Jim said: 'I'm going to see Grant tomorrow about eleven a.m. Then I'll complete... then I'll finish these damnable reports. I guess I already mentioned how much I loathe paperwork, right?'

"Well, that was one of the few characteristic things Jim said the whole time. So I tried jibing him about getting his homework done on time and getting some rest for peet's sake. I said something like; you'd better catch some sleep, partner, if you're going to be presentable in the morning.

"I'll never forget how strangely Jim looked at me then. For an instant, it was as if he didn't see who was talking to him at all. Then he got furious, out of nowhere, Jim was shaking with anger and ... fear.

'Artie,' Jim said, very quietly, 'you know I haven't been able to sleep! I haven't been able to close my eyes without dreams about... Antietam, or Cold Harbor, Shiloh, Second Bull Run, or Marye's Heights! Never mind, I've gone in to see the General in worse shape than this! So damn all, Artemus, don't Poppa me! I'm a grown man and I had one Poppa already... who I miss one hell of a lot!  
'Also, even when my Pop... when my Dad was still alive even he didn't tell me when to go to sleep anymore. No one does! So, don't, Artie! Don't Poppa me, please!'"

Jim stared at me again, and then made himself relax. I could see him pushing his shoulders down and pulling his hands down to his sides. Then he went into his room, and as far as I know, got some sleep. When I woke up the next day, Jim had already gone."

"His Poppa left him here," Miguel mused. "His Poppa left him here and told Torry he must stay. This person, this Aynsley must be the one who made a terrified child of Mr. West. This Aynsley then sent an obedient, insane child to you, Mr. Gordon, and to President Grant. If this theory bears out, either or both of you might have been killed during those ten days."

"Killed, by Jim West? Are you insane?" Artemus shouted, enraged.

"No, sir, not by any standards I will accept. Sanity and insanity are legal terms, after all, meant to protect those who endanger themselves more than anyone else. However, by those terms and some clinical ones, James West has been mad enough for some time to be driven, as we know he was, into an attempt on Ulysses Grant's life. Seeing that that single fact is almost all that we know about Aynsley's vile work, I think we must turn our efforts outside this place to finding that wretched 'Poppa', that Stefan Johannes Aynsley, M.D.!"

WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

SCENE NINE

AYNSLEY'S MANSION AND LABORATORY

THE Rosenburg,

12 MILES NORTH OF BALTIMORE,

LATE JUNE, EARLY JULY 1872

Doctor Stefan Johannes Sebastiaan Aynsley, of Amsterdam, Paris, Munich, Glasgow and more recently, Atlanta and Baltimore, gave final, thorough instructions to the Courier he had formed within the shell of James Kiernan Torrance West.

"You will go from here to the depot. From there, you will train to Baltimore and to the Carroll House hotel. Once there you will meet with your colleague, Gordon, Artemus Gordon." Aynsley said.

"Gordon," Courier murmured, then strained for the sketchy memory Aynsley had given back to him. "Gordon, Artie... Artie, Hi, Artie,"

"You may also meet with Thomas Macquillan, Jacques D'eglisier, Francis Marion Harper or Jeremy Pike. You will greet them in your normal fashion, without exciting the least interest from them."

"Thomas,"

"That is not the way you normally address Macquillan, is it, Courier?" Aynsley asked.

"No, no, Mac, just we... we call him Mac," Courier replied and went on with the drill. "Mac, what are you doin' here? The President's not due for a week. Jacques, Frank, Jere, what is this, a Service convention? Where's the Director? When's the Colonel going to show up?"

"That is correct as learned, Courier," Aynsley went on. "Now, Courier, come here. Look at Liesl's ring. Look deeply. Do you see the fire in the stone?"

Courier's green eyes widened; but he obeyed and was hypnotically trapped at once. "Fire," he murmured, lost in the stone's faceted, fiery depths.

"From this moment, Courier, you will forget this place, this surgery and all that has passed here. You do not know my name, nor do you recall my face. You have never seen this young woman before, never in your life."

"Never seen, I've never seen this ...young woman...in my life." Courier replied, blinking in confusion at Liesl Branoch.

"From this moment, you are James Kiernan Torrance West, a federal agent and veteran of the late War. You have been searching for months now, everywhere from Alexandria to Baltimore, searching to no avail for the brutal killers of street beggars in Washington and Baltimore. Instead, you found quite a number of former Confederates who gave you a petition which Grant must hear." Aynsley went on, methodically locking the pattern of his deadly intentions into the Courier's mind.

"Petition, Grant must hear." Courier echoed.

"Now, we have only one further step to take, a precaution, only." The Austrian told his creation.

"A precaution, only." Courier echoed.

"Liesl, come to me." Aynsley called. The frail, black draped, girl was instantly at his side. Her eyes were two wells of darkness and brilliant with excitement. "Liesl, hold out your hand. Show him the sapphire. "The flashing, fiery stone caught and held Courier's gaze at once. He was yet more entranced.

"Fire." Courier muttered, automatically.

"Yes, fire. You will carry the fire with you, Courier, and when you see the fire again, you will forget all that was said or done here, from the moment you came within these walls. You will remember nothing. You will forget all, as if it never was, except the fire. If you forget the fire, Courier. You will be lost beyond hope of recall. You will wander forever the boundaries of oblivion, where I found you. Therefore, Courier, you will forget." The Austrian warned his creation.

"Forget," Courier responded.

"All but the fire." Lucien Beauvais added, once more taking a role in the automaton's preparation.

Now this icy voice triggered a very different response. Abruptly Courier found himself seeing a place and time he barely knew, from West's eyes.

"I am ... I ... will be... your Courier...' Courier heard himself saying in a memory he couldn't place. 'I am... I was a soldier. I ... am... I was ... an officer. "There are rules, there are oaths, there are conventions and traditions we have to ... we must uphold. There are codes of Military Justice, Rules of Engagement, there are ... we have to ...uphold... I tried, I tried, I tried, I tried... and I can't, I can't, go against...I can't, I can't, I tried, I tried...' Courier was barely speaking aloud, trapped by Beauvais's entrance into the present nightmare, in a memory he didn't recognize or understand. 'I've defied you, I know, I know, I've defied you, you and I can't... I tried..."

''Courier! Courier, you will not, you cannot step from the Faultless Path! Return to it, and immediately! Therefore, Courier you will forget, all but the fire." Aynsley called out harshly, as the automaton visibly struggled with a moment from West's past, which Aynsley and Beauvais both knew very well. It was something out of their wartime search for a Courier-candidate.

For the last three and a half years of the War, these same conspirators and other ardent Confederates plotted to send Courier-Assassins against the generals commanding the various Union armies.

At an abandoned boy's school halfway between Richmond and Fredericksburg, the plotters worked with much the same methods of torture and deprivation, humiliation and mesmerism to find men they could send against Sheridan, Burnside, Hooker, Kearny, Meade, Sherman, Thomas, Macpherson, and Grant. Nothing worked, not on the angriest, most bitter soldiers they found and treated.

As the Army of the Potomac moved south again in 1864, word reached Grant and his Bureau of Military Intelligence of prisoners disappearing from the Libbey, from Belle Isle, from Castle Thunder and other Confederate prisons in that region. Men were also vanishing; it seemed from Union prison camps in Maryland. This was against all Rules of Engagement and had to be investigated.

A team of the Bureau's best soldier-agents was prepared and sent to the former school's compound. Mairtin Anglim Macquillan, Thomas Paine Harper, Doniel Webster Hoffner, Elias Aarons, Doniel March, Matthew Devereux, Edmund Ashton, Jesse Godsey, Robby Cooper, Jemison and Benjamin Singer, Travis Madsen and James West made up the team, portraying a group of deserters caught by the reviled Home Guard in that part of Virginia. Young Harper's uncle Nathaniel, Hoffner's cousin Isaac, West's cousin Matthias Morrissey, and Madsen's older brothers Aaron and Abram enacted the Home Guard members.

Unfortunately for the team, every man on it, including the supposed captors were taken prisoner as soon as they entered the compounds ironwork and red brick gates. Unfortunately for the combine running the place, a messenger pigeon was released before those gates closed behind the group. With wartime constraints including the fact that most of the area was still in Confederate control; little could be done while the new prisoners carried out their investigation. They learned a great deal that appalled them and some things that caught them by surprise.

No one in the Richmond government of Jefferson Davis, including his Secret Service had any ties to or knowledge of the plot to assassinate Union generals. That was mildly surprising to the team members, and a great relief to their superiors when the only other message they managed to get out answered that question. The shock came when the agents and their Union loyal Southern companions found a schoolroom full of young boys held hostage, to ensure the cooperation of their families in the plot, to fund and supply the plotters.

Stefan Aynsley was a latecomer to that conspiracy, steeled to the work by the fate of his sister's family in Atlanta. Lucien Beauvais was a shadowy backer of the process, until he saw James West enter the compound. From that point on, the Georgian, long since obsessed with West's uncle Jaimey Torrance, became a central figure. As Beauvais saw it, he could reach three goals with one well aimed shot: The destruction of Ulysses Grant, to whom West was a staff officer, the humiliation of Jaimey Torrance to whom 'Torry' was a cherished namesake, and the entirely likely death of West himself, thus eliminating the only person who could possibly name Beauvais as one of the conspirators.

Luckily for the team members, when less than a month had passed, the Bureau sent Thomas Macquillan, Jacques D'eglisier and Artemus Gordon with three companies of Union cavalry to shut down the conspiracy. Luckily for Beauvais and Aynsley, their prisoners retained little memory of them or their work in that place. Fortunately, for the child-hostages, West and his teammates had pulled of a conspiracy of their own, sending every one of the boys out of the school grounds by means of a tunnel.

Although he retained only a few memories of that time and place; Jim West knew he had crossed paths with an old enemy, 'Remy' Beauvais, there, and survived 'by the skin of my teeth'. The scenario in which Courier briefly found himself caught was part of the counter-scheme the agents and other prisoners there used against their captors. West pulled out all the stops, as he would later write in his journal, to convince the enemies there of his conflicted motives.

In those circumstances, the young captain in the 51st Pennsylvania Infantry provided the distraction his allies needed to free the hostages. Three-dozen youngsters and ninety-seven wounded or maimed prisoners escaped through that tunnel while Jim West, Matty Devereux, and Ned Ashton, two of his cousins from Norfolk diverted their enemies' attention. He spent hours allowing their captors to interrogate him, while leaning on a makeshift crutch to support a badly broken left leg. He used everything he knew about Beauvais, a man he hadn't seen in ten years, to delay, distract, and deny the plotters what they wanted.

The captors there wanted to use the grief, loathing, remorse, and anger of their prisoners as weapons against the Yankee commanders. Instead, James West and his colleagues used all the hopes soldiers always carry for peace, and all the outrage the prisoners there felt for the conspirators as a bulwark against torment, fear and abuse. Six years later, West had succeeded in pushing those times, along with other Wartime memories to the back of his mind. Only Aynsley's hypnosis and Beauvais's intervention brought them up again.

"Courier," Aynsley said again, "you will forget, all but the fire.

" All but the fire." Courier echoed, relieved to have his creator resume control.

"If you begin to remember, Courier, there is a final precaution. Tell me what that last precaution against betrayal is, Courier '' Aynsley asked.

"The One must be at all times and under all conditions protected. The One who set our Great Work and all our Endeavors in motion must never be … betrayed. The One who is at the core, at the center, at the heart of our Great Work and all our noble plans must not be betrayed to our Great Enemy, ever! Thus, we will not speak, or allow his name ever to be spoken. We will not by word, sign, or action give any acknowledgment of his presence at the core of The Great Work. That is forbidden, now and forever," Courier answered.

"This is the way in which the One for whom all the Great Work is set in motion will be forever protected: If I remember what is forbidden, I must die. If I remember what is forbidden, I will gladly die rather than betray. Rather than betray the One, I will die. If I remember what is forbidden forever I must die. Rather than betray, I will die. If I am in any danger whatever of betraying the One, I must die."

"How, Courier? How will you die?" Beauvais, the One in question, an old backer of Aynsley's methods and 'research', avidly asked the created entity.

"By my own hand, by my own means, and without hesitation, I will die, rather than betray. '' Courier replied. ''There is no other option, no other choice to be made if I am to walk the Faultless Path.''

"From here, you take your hired rig and drive to Baltimore. At the Carroll, you will meet with your colleague, Mr. Gordon.'' Aynsley instructed.

''Gordon,'' Courier echoed. ''Artemus, Artie, ''

"Yes, Artemus Gordon. You will wait at that location, until the date and time of your meeting with Grant. You will allow him to note that you are restless, tired, frustrated by your latest, fruitless efforts, and impatient to see Grant. The President expects you and your report.

"That report is most urgent.'' The Austrian continued, watching as Courier made no reaction whatever to this first reference to West' colleague, in months. That was exactly what his patterning demanded. '' You will not allow Gordon or anyone to say you are impaired, to say you are ill, and thus prevent your meeting.

"For that reason as well as it being part of your orders, Courier, you will not speak at any length with your colleagues who have medical training. Those would be Jacques D'eglisier, Jeremy Pike, Doniel Hoffner, Jemison Singer, and Etienne Morin. Nothing must prevent your meeting Grant. It is your highest duty and privilege to report to him directly on what you have learned. ''

"Not sick, not ill at all, a little tired; haven't slept well. Bad dreams. Nothing to worry about… urgent, vital meeting with Grant… expected to meet, urgent I report. Duty, and privilege.'' Courier said, shuddering.

" Now, Courier, come here once more, look at Liesl's ring. Look deeply. Do you see the fire within the stone?" Beauvais asked.

Courier's eyes widened. He was once more caught in the ring's blazing light. "Fire." he murmured, lost again in those fiery depths.

"You are Captain James Kiernan Torrance West, of the Armies of the Potomac, and on detached duty, of the Mississippi and the Cumberland. You earned

a brevet rank of Major due to the gallantry with which you fought especially at the siege of Knoxville, in aid of the artillerymen there. What did you do at Knoxville that earned the brevet promotion, Captain West?"

"Sir, I only helped the artillerymen when some of their guns were wrecked, sir. I found a supply of fuses and together we attached these shorter fuses to shells which we then lobbed into advancing skirmishers and advance enemy troops." Courier answered, describing a highly effective temporary means of giving Longstreet's advance men some trouble along the lines. ****

"Yes, that is correct, Courier," Aynsley agreed. "We'll continue the preparations now. You are Captain James Kiernan Torrance West of Norfolk, Wilmington and Raleigh and therefore as much a Southerner as any man who fought for the Cause. You remember all too vividly how the countryside you grew up in was devastated by the Conflict; how the homes you love were ruined, how the boys you schooled with were decimated and their families, like your own horrendously grieved. List for me now, as you will for the man you must meet, the man more responsible than anyone else for their deaths, list for me Courier, the friends and cousins you lost to that Conflict, the boys you grew up with and schooled with, fed like so much cannon fodder to the Yankee war machine."

"Nathan Raymer, Andrew McHarg, Beau Kuenle, Ethan Fiedler, Lytle Roarke, Abel Massey, Nolan Parmer, Davis Godsey, Bryant Leland,

Corrin Whiting, Isaac Southwell, Ethan Tanner, Jackson Sutphen, Jacob Sullivan, Sam Nance, Aidan Moray, Perry Ogden, Francis Shehan, Edward Tichenor, Griffin Shaw, Raphael Ockley, Elijah Trelawney, all from Norfolk, sir," Courier recited, as West himself could have done the names of cousins, neighbors and schoolmates from his childhood who were lost in the War.

"Beaufort Winterton, Clarence Vesey,

Jacob Schuyler, Nelson Perrot, Abram Mochrie, Tyler Shaw, Washington Pascale, Harrison Spence, Breen Weyland, Joseph Rhodes, Henry Sevilley, Asher Cochran, Nathan Courtenay, Conor Holland, Griffin Dudley, Nolan Cobb, Beaufort Ingham,

Eli Fairholm, Reuben Bristow, sir, all from Wilmington, sir...

"Quincy Stewart, Jaimey Gordon, Jordy Ashford,

Wes Gordon, Morgan Ashton, Jonathan Morgan, Chance Stuart, u, Brody and Ethan Hamilton, Duval and Jean Baptiste Clermont, Joshua and Nathanael Whelan, Robby and Ian Torrance, Addison and Nolan Devereux, Padraic and

Derry Hoynes, Rhys and Eamon Howlys, Adam and Zachary North, Thaddeus and Desmond Kuenle, Christophe and Giles Boudin, Elijah Trevelyan, Nathan Conyers, Aubrey York, Gordon Cullen, Tom Adair, Jake Dorland, Arthur Lewiston, Will Alverton,

Adam Averill, Griffin Munroe, Ethan Thompson, Randall Bromley, Abram Vesey, all from Raleigh, sir,

"Jaimey Dearden, Robby Cooper, Tim, Benjy and Ned Cooper, Elisha Aaronson, Mickey Constantine, Al Corentin, Jay Benjamin, DT Finnegan, Eli Heber, Sean Moynihan, Gardner Munroe, AT Hardouin, Will Spencer, Micah Kuenle, Tommy and Neddy Harper, Ben Singer, all from ... from Frederick and Baltimore, sir..."

"You can stop listing the names now, Courier. For the man who receives our message you will give it in full. The point is made; these were fine young men, bright, courageous, and the hope of their country. You are appalled even now, after so much time has passed, Courier that so many young lives were thrown into the maw of that War as if they had no other purpose.

"You know, Courier that those who say the Conflict is over are liars or fools; that for those boys and their kin and their homeland, it is not and cannot be over while their lives and their deaths remain unrecompensed! Like the good hearted, loyal, deeply chastened people who gave you this petition, Captain, you want more than anything for that Conflict, that terrible time of Havoc, Terror and Loss, for that War finally to end!"

"Want that War finally to end! End!" Courier said, locked into Aynsley's patterning once and for all.

wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww

*** Samuel Nicoll Benjamin, a genuine member of the historical West Point graduating class of May 1861, was an artillery officer who jury-rigged fuses and cannon shells in exactly this way during the campaign in Eastern Tennessee in the fall and winter of 1863. Benjamin graduated **12****th**** of 45** in the May class.

The first part of this note is what inspired me to give James West Benjamin's place in my stories... who else would take cannon shells with short fuses and lob them at approaching infantrymen?

WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

SCENE TEN

JULY 1872

THE MARYLAND HOUSE HOTEL

BALTIMORE, MARYLAND.

Fourteen days later, the Courier entered the Maryland House hotel in the full dress regalia of a major in the defunct Army of the Potomac. This dress uniform included a blue boiled wool field jacket, a uniform sash worn on the slant like a bandoleer, an officer's sword and scabbard and a well made, tooled leather gun belt carrying a Navy Colt revolver, fine leather gloves in a regulation buff color. The regulation dress uniform was completed with a black wool felt 'Hardee' hat with the left side of the brim stiffly folded against the crown and cockaded, with a brass insignia of crossed swords marking it as an Infantry officer's hat. The uniform was West's, although he had not worn it in seven years, or ever thought of wearing it again. He had not thought to act the courier again either, until Stefan Aynsley took all but that role from him. Now Courier could not act outside that role.

Courier was as unaware of his wider surroundings today as the blind beggar he counterfeited, months ago. He had no notion that his military dress or his mannerisms seemed odd to those who saw him. He had no idea that the gaily-chattering girl who met him at the hotel's veranda and clung to his left arm was Liesl Branoch.

The mad woman, still in her profound mourning clothes, hat and veil, albeit in the latest style and purchased for her by Lucien Beauvais, arrived in a small phaeton also given her by Beauvais. That gentleman had removed himself from Stefan's home days before. Riding into Baltimore he too waited for West to meet with Grant, from a vantage point in hotel adjoining the Maryland House. Beauvais wanted something more, something personal besides the death of the President today. He would take any measures, and sacrifice any supposed ally to acquire it.

Lucien Jeremiel Beauvais was wholly as mad as the bright haired girl was, and entirely as calculating as Aynsley. He was certainly more power hungry than either of them. He had used them both to his own ends in this endeavor, and the lunatic called Torry/Courier even more thoroughly. Neither Aynsley nor mad little Liesl knew Beauvais as well as Jim West had, twenty and more years ago; and West didn't know the Port au Prince born Georgian as well as Jaimey Torrance, Jim's namesake uncle.

Beauvais had known Jaimey Torrance for forty years at this juncture and hated Torrance as rabidly as Liesl hated Ulysses Grant. The fact that Torrance married Beauvais's half sister was only one source of his antipathy. His goals in all this work therefore diverged from Aynsley's to include the humiliation and ruin of Jaimey Torrance through his cherished nephew, and a power-grab in Washington, once Grant was dead. Until both those goals were assured, Beauvais avidly protected his status as an anonymous backer of Aynsley's research.

Liesl, charmed by Beauvais and unaware of his separate motives, waited for hours this morning. First Grant arrived from the Baltimore depot, then the Courier. Liesl had waited a little less than six years for her revenge. She would not be deprived now of seeing that vengeance complete.

Liesl's madness however could not touch the darkness in which the Courier walked. Only Aynsley's murderous patterning remained real to him. One misstep would throw him off his destined path into mindless, inconceivable terror. Failure would destroy him forever. Therefore, he would not fail.

At the Maryland House, on the top floor, the door to the inner suite reserved for the President opened for Jim West/Courier. Liesl Branoch was required to wait outside that door, in a semi-public corridor, to her great frustration. This was by the orders of a politely firm young agent, who knew West, but not the girl. Ulysses Grant, along with aides, advisors, and several Baltimore politicos welcomed West, back from a six month absence.

The Courier had no time to notice or deal with the others. He had to speak to the President, urgently and in private.

"Is it that important, James?" Grant asked, interrupting the flow of Aynsley's patterning already.

"Yes, Sir, vitally important," Courier replied.

"Well then, James, of course we can talk," Grant agreed, and the pattern fell back into place. "Gentlemen," the President said to his entourage. "If Mr. West deems this matter vitally important and secret, I must assume it is just that, please excuse us."

"Yes, Mr. President," the other men murmured and left the suite.

"It's been quite a while since I saw that uniform, 'Major'," Grant commented with a smile for the younger man.

"Five years, and a little more, yes, General, I mean," Courier deliberately hesitated now and shrugged. "Pardon me, Sir. I don't know why ... I put it on. I've been haunted by the War lately, Mr. President. I suppose that's it."

"Well, come and tell me about it, James. I'm told I can be a pretty good listener." Grant answered.

"Yes, Sir, I've been investigating the killing... the deaths of former Confederates, here, here and in the District, indigents, begging and barely surviving ... I haven't learned a great deal about those killings, though, Sir." Courier continued, safely within the boundaries of the pattern.

"I have uncovered a matter during that investigation, however of which you must be informed, Sir. Those men or some of those men died after being forcibly involved, in most cases, I believe, Sir, in a far-reaching conspiracy against your life, Sir. Those men, who had no recourse to family or friends any longer, died when they failed to act on the conspirator's plans, when they failed to kill you, Sir."

"I see," Grant interjected. " That's tragic, isn't it, James? What sort of cowards, even if they are not supporters of mine, would hide behind these broken men and then kill them?"

The President was leaving the faultless path again and Courier came close to panicking. "I cannot say, Sir. I cannot say," Courier answered, truthfully.

"However, Sir, there is ... I must tell you, there is more..."

"Go on, James, please. I can see you're quite worked up about all this. I don't blame you. One soldier always mourns another, I would say, even in wartime, all the moreso in peace." Grant said.

"Yes, Sir, there are so many people I spoke to recently, Sir, so many, loyal, entirely loyal people, all of whom have taken the Loyalty Oath, Sir." Courier said, rushing on with his patterned speeches.

"Former Confederates, then?" Grant asked, walking back within the pattern.

"Yes, Sir. They seem to believe that this conspiracy and others like it can only be halted by specific, immediate action. They believe, Sir, that you are the only one who can halt these conspiracies that only wound the nation again and again, Sir."

"How am I do to that?" Grant demanded. "I cannot imprison every bitter ex-Rebel, nor would I do so if I could."

"N-n-no, Sir," Courier stammered, startled again. His patterning allowed for Grant's flashing, rarely seen anger here, not irony. Struggling to keep on the path, Courier pulled a folded sheet of foolscap from his inner right pocket, and held it out towards Grant.

"Mr. President, Sir, these are educated, intelligent, highly reasonable, chastised people. They only asked me to give you their petition. It has over eight hundred signatures, Sir,"

"Including yours, James?" Grant asked sharply, throwing the pattern off again.

"No, Sir. No, I am only their Courier, Sir, as it were. Mr. President, will you accept their petition? They are loyal, Sir. They are not the conspirators. They wish you no harm..."

"James!" Grant exclaimed as the younger man staggered, suddenly overwhelmed with the contradictions whirling through his words and his thoughts. "Are you ill?"

"No, Sir! No, Sir! I'm not ill at all, Sir. I'm just ... I'm a bit tired, Sir. I haven't...slept much...Sir." Courier/West was beginning to shake with tension and exhaustion combined. He could not keep Aynsley's rigidly precise patterning working in the face of this living, breathing, beloved and unpredictable human object. He could not force Grant into the pattern; nor could he erase the lies and frauds, delusions and nightmares that woven the pattern around him. An impasse appeared, with all the torment of Aynsley's patterning building against it to a volatile level. A fragmenting corner of West's mind saw the impasse and panicked.

"Mr. President Sir, I gave my word you would accept, you would read their petition. I gave my oath, Sir. Will you, or won't you, Sir?"

"Of course I will read it, James. I know how important a man's given word is. I insist, however that you sit and calm yourself while I read this vital petition."

"Yes, Sir," Courier said and sat tensely on a horsehair sofa next to a marble topped library table.

Ten minutes dragged like ten years now as Grant found his spectacles and intently read the petition's legal terms and arguments. Five more minutes went to the petition's eight hundred and fourteen signatures.

"James," the President finally said, standing again himself. "Have you read this?"

"Yes, Sir. I memorized it, Sir, in case the paper itself were lost, Mr. President." Courier answered standing and diligently following the pattern and the protocols burned into his mind by Aynsley and a life in military prep schools.

"Then you already know what my answer must be," Grant concluded.

"Sir?" Courier/West asked, feeling leaden despair take him over.

"I cannot do as this petition asks. I cannot do what these petitioners want. You know that; and I suspect they know it, too." The President said, shaking his head.

"Mr. President, Sir? All due respect, Sir, you are refusing the petition?"

"James, I have neither the authority nor the right to make or unmake such broad based policies of the Congress, even where they are implemented by the War Department. Mr. Lincoln assumed such sweeping powers during the Crisis; and I believe he was right to do so; it was necessary, if harsh. Congress has rightfully taken those powers back, Congress, the Courts, and the legislatures. No one man, unless he's as near to sainthood as Lincoln may well have been in his own way can safely or sanely hold such power. We are a Republic James, not a Dictatorship."

"Mr. President," West began to plead, coldly terrified of the consequences. "Sir, please, Sir, you mustn't refuse..."

"I must. These loyal, reasonable, intelligent people have badly mistaken the means and the source of power in this government. They should have petitioned Congress."

"Sir," West said again, facing the President. "These people are still suffering the effects of the War. They are asking for -"

"James, you said you read this. These people are asking for an end, an immediate end by Executive Order to Congress' policy of Reconstruction. That is impossible. Even if I were to ask Congress to take such action, it could not and would not happen. Pragmatically speaking alone, hundreds of pieces of legislation and perhaps thousands of military orders would have to be rescinded.

"Politically speaking, no one would put their hand to it, knowing that Lincoln's ideas of reconciliation and Andrew Johnson's notions of lopsided fairness to former Confederates have been knocked to pieces since the War ended. These loyal people, James, I don't understand, honestly why you are here speaking for them."

West's green eyes blazed with a fury they learned from Liesl Branoch. He hardly heard what Grant was saying. The President's refusal keyed his whole being to violence. Nothing would stop Liesl's vengeance now.

"Sir, I am completely loyal. I honor you. I respect you. And I gave my word. I gave my word I would help you to understand this petition. You must listen to me!"

"Of course I will, James. Only you seem exhausted," Grant said, studying his protégé closely. He knew the younger man's sense of honor and duty, and determination. "Please, tell me what you feel you must, my friend."

Courier/West hurried on, fighting to ignore Grant's open concern for him. The patterning said the father/authority/brother/friend should be at least aloof now, faintly distrustful and irritated, not worried about the Courier/madman.

"Sir, the people who sent that petition are suffering. They are dispossessed, driven from their homes, their work, and their lands. They are not citizens any longer, unless of course they take the Oath.

Sir, their honor, their dignity as a people has been stripped away. They are not allowed property, education, or honorable positions. They could be better off in prison.

"Sir, they want to forget the War, as we all do. How can they, when they are still considered enemies? The War has never ended for them. It will never end without something being done out of sheer humanity, Sir. How can they forget?"

"They are asking me for an Executive Order, declaring and immediate repeal of Reconstruction. That is not possible. Not possible at all. If I wrote it, the Congress and the Courts would have a field day, along with the Press, tearing it and my Administration to ribbons. We would effectively be giving up our ability to accomplish anything of any real use to the nation, the entire nation, and still fail to achieve what these petitioners are asking.

"Even if I proposed such a thing as legislation to the Congress tomorrow, it would take months, maybe even a year to go through the processes. And it would be voted down, with the same results as I just mentioned, if not more. We both know that and so do these petitioners. They are asking me to bypass the Congress in such a way, that I would not if indeed I could.

"So I am, in fact, rather suspect of the earnestness of these petitioners, James. I think they have been disingenuous with you, to say the least .I think anyone who has been heeding the difficulties and disputes, the debates and the debacles around this one issue, must in fact know with what trouble and how long it will take to be remedied. I am more aware than these petitioners can know of the corruption that has grown up around what was supposed to be peacemaking and reunion.

"And now, it carries the same stigma the war did, of pitting brother against brother, South and West. Also, our Republican leadership in the House and the Senate has no mind to forgive those in the South who went from asking to leave the Union in peace, to firing on Sumter. Mr. Lincoln's assassination made sure of that.'''

_There, there you see, he thinks Lincoln was wrongly killed. He said that mongrel was near to sainthood! He is our Great Enemy! Destroy him! Destroy him_!

'' I sometimes wonder if our reunited Southern brothers realize that. Well, never mind that now. I alone cannot do more than ask Congress to revisit and, renew Mr. Lincoln's commitment to rebuild the Union, to make us one people again, in our hearts as well as in our laws. I believe it may take and outside threat, even a foreign war, perhaps, before that can or will happen."

"Sir, I understand. I will go now and relate your response." Courier said, knowing he could not leave.

"Wait, James. You are plainly exhausted and despite your protests, I think gravely ill, and deeply troubled. Until this week, I have not heard from you in months. Something is clearly not well with you, my friend, tell me." the President protested.

Courier rushed on, desperate to ignore Grant's open concern. The patterning said the father authority older brother friend figure should be aloof, now, and coldly mistrustful, not worried, or compassionate. From a corner of his emptiness, his shock at this response from Grant, another voice began to speak, James West's voice, shaking with weariness, driven by desperation.

"Sir, I serve at the pleasure of the President. I will gladly do so to my last breath if I'm allowed that high, that signal privilege .I don't think I could possibly put into words, Sir, what that's meant to me. Nothing, nothing in my life has honored me more, Sir, than your call to service, unless it was your friendship, Sir, please, believe me."

Breathing as hard as if he'd lost a footrace, Courier choked on a sob of pure fear and shoved his elder self aside. _He's refu_sing _the petition. He's refusing, rejecting the petition_. Courier thought. _At least in that he's following the patterning, keeping within the flow. And when we turn again, facing this stubborn old soldier, we will, we must set the final terms in place. Nothing else was ever possible. Nothing was ever going to change. There was no hope for the Yankee's Great Hero, now or ever. This is within the flow, this is the firm track of the patterning, we must follow it to it's proper ends, and soon._

"Sir, these people, the ones who wrote and signed the petition, are disenfranchised, still, barred from schools, from public service, their lands, their homes are lost to them. They are watching their world, the world they grew up in, the world many of us grew up in die. They are watching their children and grandchildren growing up, now, Sir, paying the price for a War that they never looked for. G-d knows, Sir, they understand that the evil that world was founded on had to die, had to be expunged in blood. "They see the War as needing to be genuinely, finally over, now, Sir. They see the land they love, and in their own way have always, always genuinely loved, still torn and bleeding with dissension. Because there are, still those in both sections of the country who seem to want that War kept alive. They see the sectional disputes and debates, quarrels and discord growing back towards the level at which the Union split in two, Sir.

"They are in fear, Mr. President, for their children and their grandchildren's future, naturally. They have persuaded me, Sir that they are also in tremendous fear of the potential for that Conflict being renewed, and soon. These are, these petitioners, Mr. President, are eager for the Peace you sought, and you fought for so hard and so well to become real throughout the nation, now.

"They don't see that it will, and they claim, Sir that they are still not, citizens even now, eleven years after the War began. Their honor, Sir, their dignity, as a people has been stripped away. Sir, they want nothing more than to forget the War, as do we, Sir, ourselves. How can they, when they are still thought of as our enemies? The War, Sir, never ended for them. It never. It never will end. How can it? How?"

"James, you, and the other men on my staff during the War, know, better than most, how I hated the War, You know I hate the suffering it caused and still causes. And you, with every man who served with me, know that I worked with all my strength and every ounce of my will, my only goal being to end the Conflict. One man, no matter who he is, cannot move alone against matters which were set on course a hundred years ago.

"Of course, you may tell these petitioners that I am taking every possible step to stop the abuses you mention. I daresay that won't satisfy them. It doesn't satisfy anyone I know or speak to. It certainly doesn't satisfy me. But it's my honest answer. And I am far more concerned with you, James, than with a petition I am not empowered to satisfy. These people have clearly disturbed you, greatly, my friend, and I want to know how and why."

"N-n-no, Sir. I just, I haven't been able to sleep," Courier said, clinging to the patterning he'd learned at such cost. "I haven't been able to sleep without ...dreams of ... Antietam, the Bloody Triangle there, the Wilderness' fires, or Maryes' Heights, all the worst, all the very worst, the Crater, the ... first, first morning at Shiloh...Sir, I'm sorry, I respect you so greatly, so greatly, Sir, I don't wish to offend you... those battles ...I don't... I don't... I have to... I have ... I gave my word.. I gave..."

"No one can offend me, James, by frankly speaking about the horrors we all saw in the War, least of all one of the men who lived through them and fought through them with me." Grant tried to assure the younger man. The President was astonished by West's trembling, barely coherent state.

"If you've been made ill by these supposedly good, reasonable people, James, I cannot and I will not find much sympathy for them. And you are ill!"

"No!" Courier cried. "No, Sir! I haven't slept! I'm not ... ill, Sir, I haven't... the dreams, Sir... my word... Sir, I can't... I can't... they... they believed... they

Almost of its own volition, following the patterning, the revolver he carried appeared in West's shaking right hand, a Navy Colt. West stared at it in blank surprise. So did Ulysses Grant. The two men standing at nearly point-blank range, any shot from that heavy weapon could be fatal.

"Is it possible?" Grant murmured sadly, looking at his protégé. "Jim, is it possible they believed you would take my life? Am I supposed to believe you would?"

Horror wrote itself on West's features. Looking to the President the maddened man saw astonishment, pain and grief in Grant's eyes and then, once more, a profound compassion. Grant was the father figure he'd been sent to with a message of death. Grant's pain and grief were all for the man he knew as James West. Not an instant's distrust, anger, or fear could be seen in the President's face; there was none in his thoughts. Not for a second did Ulysses Grant believe West would harm him.

"They actually thought they could win their way by killing me?" The President said, just as quietly.

"G-d, preserve us! What sort of mad fools are these? They'll trigger another war, not end the last one, this way! Of course, they must want that new War, not an end to the old one. James, Major West,"

West stared at Grant. The President had just shattered the worst part of the patterning. He'd shown open trust and concern, where the pattern insisted he'd shout bitterly of betrayal and treason. Courier stood helpless, silent. The pattern was exploding around him like an over-heated cannon. He had no pattern to follow, no faultless path, no safe steps to take.

"Final terms," West/Courier muttered. "No other accepted. Final. No other. No," Staring at the revolver, West brought it towards his own face. Liesl's revenge, Stefan's pattern, Beauvais's lust for power all would have their Courier fire the Colt point blank at Grant He could not. His arm and hand shook so violently now he could hardly raise the weapon at all. Horror waited to devour him in his failure; Impasse. Cul de sac, a reviled coward's grave the only exit.

The idea of his own death wrote itself vividly in West's eyes. A longing for death shone there, that would have been impossible to the whole, sane man Grant knew. That man barely existed now, and was suffocating under the ruins of Aynsley's patterning. The Courier Aynsley brought to be was disintegrating. Mindless terror stood ready to swallow this fragile shell of a man, staring at a revolver he could barely hold now.

"No," he whispered. "No, must end, must, end, War... dreams, can't sleep for dreams... that War ...to end... End!"

"James!" Grant shouted, "Give that gun to me! James!"

Even in his half mad state, West knew that Grant could not and would not believe his protégée capable of harming the President. Even as he was losing the battle for his remaining sanity, Jim knew he could not harm, much less kill this sternly kind mentor and friend. He lowered the gun to his side. It felt like a hundred pound weight at the end of his arm, and he nearly dropped it to the floor.

_Leave the field, Courier,_ Jim's stubborn albeit terribly weary, weakened voice demanded in his thoughts. _Retreat, call retreat, and leave the field. Take what troops you can save and fall back, fall back!_

No_, no! You can't be here!_ Courier insisted, recognizing the mind of the one he sprang from, weeks ago. _You can't! You don't belong here, this is our field, and we will be the victors here! You must fall back! You don't belong on the firing line anymore. You don't belong here at all._

_I don't belong ANYWHERE IN THE WORLD, more than I do here right this minute, now, today, Courier. We're soldiers, we're officers. That means many things, right now, it means we can't and we don't and we won't kill anyone, not ANYONE in cold blood! You are part of me, Courier, and in that sense, we both took oaths, solemn oaths, Courier, long before this last nightmare year. Those oaths weren't to any one man, not even this one. They were the same oaths he took to the Union, to the Army and before that to the Code at West Point. Honor, Duty, Country. West, passionately argued, feeling the strength of Grant's loyalty to him, intensify his own resolve._

_No! No, Oldest! No! He's refused the petition! He's refused, just as the patterning said he would! The final terms, the final terms must be given him! He is still the Butcher. He is still the Enemy! He is the one who ordered our world destroyed! If he is not destroyed, we have betrayed our oath to the grand endeavor, and to the One! Rather than betray…rather than betray…we must die!_

The patterns were exploding around Courier now. He had no faultless path to follow, no safe pattern to tread. He was fighting himself, literally, and this other self was suddenly stronger, so strong now, and so determined. Had he betrayed the One? Was he forgetting the oath, the grand endeavor, the One for whom it was all to be done? That wasn't possible. That was insupportable. The One, who had been always at the core of Courier's life, who stood silent, in the shadows, but still at the center of his life nearly as long as he could remember, who had shaped him over the course of his life, must be shielded, protected, screened and at all times and in all places, never, never, never betrayed!

His hand and arm were shaking violently but still this shell of a man fought to raise the weapon to his own head. The patterning instructed he should do so, as a ruse to bring the Great Enemy close enough to kill. The patterning was failing Courier now, crumbling all around him, and he was crumbling too. Instead, as he looked once more at the revolver, a new amalgam of James West, Courier and a sunny-haired, cheerily disposed, four year old named Torry, as well as his stunned, remorseful five year old brother-self was taking shape, even in this terrible moment, as if in a kiln. The old, bitter remorse was rising too, threatening to drown this emerging self.

Once more, the chasm yawned between the man, the automaton, the child, and the father figure. With each second that passed, using the revolver to take his own life was all he could imagine doing now. He'd failed the patterning, and fallen from the faultless path. He'd failed the creator who'd set him this glorious task. He'd betrayed the One! And even in the midst of that betrayal, he still stood patently threatening West's 'second father'. He'd betrayed all he knew, as West, as Courier, as Aynsley's Subject and as the child, Torry. And that was intolerable, that was appalling, insupportable.

"I am… Jim heard himself saying in a memory he couldn't place. I was a soldier…I am…I was and officer…and there are rules, there are oaths, there are conventions and traditions we must …we have to uphold… We have to. We can't…go against…we can't…I can't…I tried…I tried…and I can't…" He was speaking just barely aloud, but caught, fallen back into a time and place that were unrecognizable to him. And he was raising the revolver to his forehead. "I've defied, you, I know, I've defied, you and I …can't…I tried…and I can't …"

"James!" Grant called out over his shoulder. Stepping back to call his aide, without daring to turn from the younger man, "McCauley, get in here, Get in here now! James is ill! McCauley! James, my friend, listen to me, listen to me now, son…James…"

The uniformed man made no response. He was far from being James West and could not respond to that name. _Not ill!_ Courier's fragmenting patterns insisted. _I'm not.. We're not ill!_ _And we vowed, we gave our solemn vow, never to step from the faultless path, again! He is our Great Enemy! You may be our brother, our origin, Turncoat, but this is our field, our place, and our time! We are not here to debate our past, or our future, and neither of those has any significance now! If the Butcher is not to die today, then we are forsworn and must at least keep our oath to die ourselves, rather than betray! ! We must complete the patterning, we must complete the terms, or we are lost_!

A sudden, violent wish for his own death now wrote itself plainly in West's eyes. He had nothing else to want, to long for, or to achieve. This kind of death wish not any part of the man Grant knew, but that man barely existed now. An empty shell resembling him stood in Grant's temporary office, resting his aching forehead on the barrel of the gun. ''No, no, " he whispered. "Must end, must end, please, please end, end, never, war never only, only for that war to finally, finally end! PLEASE, PLEASE, END, END, END PLEASE END PLEASE END."

"James, you have come through some kind of ordeal that much is plain. You need never be ill at ease with me, my friend. We went through a great part of our Nation's greatest ordeal, working together." Grant said quietly.

_He's shattered it! The old soldier's shattered the patterning! He's destroyed the path He's negated the path! ! It's gone! It's gone! We have no pattern! We have no path! We have been betrayed and we have become betrayers! ! We are lost!_

"Major West, hand over your revolver to me, and at once, sir," Grant now ordered him, sharply.

West's head snapped back on his neck. His eyes opened wide and then wider still. He seemed to see Grant in that instant as if for the first time in years. "Sir?"

Grant put his hand on the safety mechanism of the revolver before another moment passed, before his aides rushed into the room.

"You are relieved of duty, Major.. You should not have reported in at all, once you became ill. Also it seems you have mistaken your orders. We will leave that discussion for another time, will we not?"

"Y yes, Sir. I apologize, Sir," the empty man said, utterly bemused by Grant's stern kindness.

" I accept. Now, I will escort you to the field hospital. You will allow me to, Mr.. I do not brook argument from my staff officers, as you have cause to know."

"Y- yes, General" West said, having somehow slipped back in time seven years.

"Give me your weapon." Grant calmly ordered.

"Y yes, yes, Sir." The amalgam, still confused in all its parts, nodded and complied.

Grant took the revolver and led West out the double doors of the suite. There, Liesl Branoch waited vividly excited by the shouting she'd heard. Then she saw Ulysses Grant, still very much alive, and she screamed. "Traitor, Traitor! The Butcher lives! You had time to kill him ten times over! Now, I shall dispatch him myself!"

"LIESL, NO!" West cried, unaware of how he knew the girl, only seeing her gun and her headlong rush at Grant.

"DAMN YOU! ''She cried, "HE IS OUR GREAT ENEMY, HE MUST DIE!''

"NO!" West broke from Grant, tackling the mad woman, but wildly, so that they both fell to the carpet. Now, a cordon of guards finally reached Grant, West, and Liesl. She could not be restrained; and the soldier-President would not be moved from the scene.

"Who is she, James? Great G-d! She's only a child!"

" You are wrong, Butcher, quite wrong indeed! I am a woman grown now! My name is Liesl Marguerite Branoch, of Atlanta, I am the last survivor of my family, Butcher, and I'm fully eighteen years old. I WAS A CHILD, BUTCHER, A CHILD TEN YEARS OLD WITH SISTERS WHO WERE FIFTEEN AND SIX THAT YEAR, THAT BLOODY YEAR … WHEN YOU AND MASSA LINCOLN SENT YOUR MADMAN SHERMAN AND HIS ARMIES TO DESTROY OUR WORLD. MY SISTERS DIED WHILE ATLANTA BURNED AROUND US,

MY PARENTS DIED, TRYING TO KEEP US ALIVE, TRYING TO FIGHT OFF STARVATION, DISEASE AND COLD IN WHAT WERE NO BETTER THAN PRISON CAMPS, AFTER SHERMAN EMPTIED OUT ATLANTA, MY PARENTS TRIED, THEY DIED TRYING, BUTCHER, TO GET US AWAY TO SAFETY WHEN THERE WAS NO SAFETY ANYWHERE! OUR WORLD WAS DESTROYED AT YOUR ORDER, BUTCHER; AND NOW I WILL DESTROY YOU, AND YOURS!'' Liesl, thoroughly enjoying her own histrionics cried out.

''WHAT WILKES-BOOTH DID FOR YOUR TRAITOROUS TO HIS OWN ROOTS, TO HIS OWN PEOPLE, MONGREL- LINCOLN, NOW I WILL DO FOR YOU!'' '

She held another revolver, an Army Colt, well cared for and shining in the morning light. It had been taken from Jim West months ago. But she was no hand with firearms and West lunged for her and the heavy weapon again. Liesl struggled, spitting curses at West and Grant. Now Jim caught her in a hold she could not easily break, his right arm fully around her torso, and he took the gun, with his left. One small, methodical corner of his mind noted that the firing mechanism was effectively jammed, or broken, either way, primed to start a chain-fire, under any sort of pressure.

In a matter of seconds, West found himself trying to do half a dozen things at once, and it was nearly more than his still battered mind could manage. Holding the girl, he sought to turn her bodily away from Grant, towards the door across from the President's, towards a window a bit further down the hall. While fighting Liesl, trying to move and keep her fingers from the revolver's trigger, the soldier-agent/amalgam was also trying to urge the President to quit the scene, with no success. Lastly, as the corridor started to fill with curious civilians, West was more successfully ordering Grant's guard to send them away, back down the hall.

Now, still screaming, fighting with all the strength of her mania, Liesl tried for the revolver's trigger once again. And now she held it, for just the instant it took to pull the trigger back. Fire leapt from the weapon, brighter than Liesl's hair, brighter than her sapphire. A roar like fifty cannons firing at once in the closed hallway shook them all. The frail figure in Jim's arms dropped from his broken hold.

He cried out and clutched at his face, which as in the mesmeric session that sent him here was a mask of fire. Liesl's screaming ceased, but now seeming as amazed by this turn of events as Grant, as Jim, kept on with her part to the last. With her last breath, she whispered the last of her monologue, words written, memorized, and calculated, to destroy all traces of sanity in West's ruined mind.

"Torry, you did it, Torry, you did it! You killed him for me. You killed the Butcher, Grant." she whispered, "Torry, Torry, Torry…''

Subject/Courier/Jim and Torry cried out in horror and let her go. . Truly blinded now, he amazed everyone still watching, by pulling himself away and bolting back through the President's suite. He ran through it to the adjoining hall, as if still fully sighted.

His shattered patterning told him to escape, it told him to follow the strictly memorized route through the suite that had been his maze to tread for months, functioning as a blind man. With only fragments of the patterning left, he ran on, down a back staircase, to the alleyway behind the hotel. He would have run on until he collapsed, with no idea of where or to whom he ran. The ruined patterning told him to escape. It no longer told him where to escape.

Stefan Aynsley stood beside his brougham in the alleyway behind the Maryland House. He had been waiting for nearly half an hour now for Liesl and the Courier to emerge as the plan and the patterning dictated. He had not been able to keep the mad girl from driving into the city. He hoped now to carry both Liesl and West safely away from the commotion already evident all around the hotel.

It was not the Courier, nor James West who ran madly out of the hotel into that alley, tripping, falling and sprawling onto the cobblestones. It was a hysterically sobbing child called Torry, who had seen and heard and suffered horrors he could neither endure nor understand.

Aynsley bent to the child, aware at once, that this was no grown man, and no automaton-Courier lying face down in the alleyway.

"Where is Liesl?" the researcher asked. "Torry, answer me now. Where is Liesl?"

"Liesl, no! Liesl, no!" the child whispered, echoing his own desperate cries.

"Where is Liesl Marguerite, Torry? Where is she?" Aynsley asked again.

Torry lifted his scarred, blind face towards the stern voice he knew all too well. "Poppa?" the child asked. "Poppa?"

Horror stricken, Stefan gasped. His spine turned to ice with foreboding. He had seen a pair of young aides or agents running into the main street, calling for a doctor. Until this moment, the researcher believed a physician was needed for Ulysses Grant. Now the child's chattering told him that was not so.

"There was a 'splosion, Poppa, like fireworks, all over, like fireworks, Poppa. And Liesly fell down, Poppa. She fell down and lay down very quiet. She whi'pered to Torry, she whi'pered to me... Torry, Torry, Torry, youdidyoudid, you, Torry, Torry, Torry. She lay down very quiet, Poppa and she falled to sleep, Poppa. She falled to sleep."

"Yes, Torry. Asleep. I understand. Come along now, Come."

Stefan took the child to the surgery of a colleague in the city and treated his injuries as well as was possible. Neither blindness nor madness could be treated as easily as burns and cuts; but the physician-researcher knew his subject would die within hours without care. Stefan Aynsley did not want the child to die, although that realization surprised the researcher; and he had no heart to torment the helpless creature in an attempt to reverse the patterning.

Mourning Liesl, thinking of his broken vows at her parent's grave outside Atlanta, a sheath of ice seemed to shatter around Aynsley's heart. He would not return to his inquiries. They had destroyed what they were meant to save. He could not function as a surgeon; his once steely nerves had deserted him. He could not maintain even the care of blind Torry; he barely cared for himself.

It was Lucien Beauvais who came looking for his co-conspirator and took the maddened, blinded child off Aynsley's hands.

"My dear old friend," the Georgian suggested, in an effort to seem compassionate and caring. "You have burdens enough now. I will take Torry with me and see to his ... protection. After all, it was I who thought he could be our Courier. Leave the boy to me now, old friend. Go back to your home, or better still, why not return to your beautiful old Vienna?"

"I shall never see Vien again, Lucien Jeremiel," Stefan said, shaking his head. "I only meant to go there if I could take Liesl Marguerite to some of the younger physicians who are exploring new methods to help ... nervous conditions. Now she has no more need of such explorations, she is with her beloved parents and siblings again. She is at peace now, surely."

"I wish the same peace for you, my dear old friend," Beauvais offered. "So the boy will come with me now; and you can at least rest from your labors. Good evening, Stefan."

"Auf wiedersehen, Lucien Jeremiel," Aynsley said. "I sternly charge you not to take the child's life. He is not the one responsible for the failure of our plans. He is not responsible for Liesl's death, either. Do not allow the child to die for our failures, old friend."

"Certainly not, old friend!" Beauvais exclaimed as if shocked by the suggestion. "Torry will live to a ripe old age, of course, Stefan. As one of his oldest friends, I will see to his every need, my word on that. The child has always been terribly dear to me, Stefan, I thought you understood that."

"I understood." Aynsley agreed. "Auf wiedersehen, Lucien Jeremiel. I am going back to the Rosenburg. You and I will likely not meet again, with the endeavor ending as it has, and Grant still alive."

Beauvais only smiled, nodded, and waved as the researcher climbed back into his carriage. If he was disappointed with the end of their endeavor, he gave Aynsley no sign or signal. His mind was too busy in the moment with a newly hatched plan. Now Beauvais gestured for one of his body servants to carry the blind child to Beauvais's perfectly appointed Victoria and drive to the County Asylum.

This happened to be one of Beauvais's many properties in and around Baltimore, and as such took in scores of his perceived and real opponents and adversaries. Using paperwork drawn up for just that sort of purpose, Lucien Beauvais committed Torry to the asylum under a false name, David Jonathan North Traherne, and signed himself Stefan Johannes Sebastiaan Aynsley. No one would find James West in such a place, there was no James West left to find.

"Now, you must listen closely to me, Torry," Beauvais said, once the child-man was settled in one of the treatment rooms for newly admitted inmates. "You must listen and obey me in every regard, as always. You must be obedient as always, Torry. You must never disgrace me by being an unruly, willful, disobedient child. We've understood each other for a very long time now, Torry. So you understand me now, don't you, Torry?"

"Un...Stan," the broken child answered, turning towards the Georgian. "Torry Little un...stan', bestest Remy, goodest Remy... Torry Little un' stan', Torry Little be bedien, Torry Little no be weelfu, dis'bedien, unroolee, bestest, goodest Remy, Torry Little be small genlmenns, Remy." This was a decades old litany Beauvais taught to a toddler of sixteen months his family had just begun to call Torry. Since then the Georgian had been the most pervasive, most deeply hidden influence on the child's life.

Now Beauvais smiled to himself but allowed not one trace of humor in his voice. "Torry, Torry-Little, you must not call me Remy while you are here, you must not, that would be disgracefully disobedient, Torry. You must not say that name ever, ever again, Torry. You must call me Poppa, Torry; and you must understand it was your Poppa who told you to stay here.

"This is what you must do from now on, Torry, in order to be obedient as a small gentleman must be: You must stay here, Torry. You must not leave this place unless your Poppa comes to take you away. You must stay here, Torry. You must stay still, and make no fuss or bother for these people. You must stay quiet, here, saying nothing at all. Nothing, Torry, you must say nothing. Do you understand me Torry?"

'Un...stan', ... Poppa," the child answered, still in a state of shock to some extent. "Un' stan', Poppa, Poppa, Poppa... Poppa will ... will came back to find Torry Little? Torry Little can came on home, with Poppa?"

"Only if you are entirely obedient, Torry," Beauvais insisted. "If you are in the least disobedient, willful, unruly or ungentlemanly, then Poppa cannot come back to find you. If you are disobedient, talking when you are required to keep quiet, running about when you are required to keep still, or worst of all leaving this place without your Poppa, I will not be able to find you, Torry, I will not be able to take you home.

"A small gentleman must be obedient to his Poppa, you know that, Torry. You know you have been a very disobedient small gentleman until now. You know you have been willful, unruly, bad tempered, and playing where you should never, ever have played, don't you, Torry.

"You know you should never play in strange places or places where a small gentleman has been told not to play, don't you, Torry? You know a small gentleman does only what the grown folks who look out for him tell him to do. You know what happened when Torry played where he was never, ever supposed to play, don't you, Torry?"

"Yes, yes, Poppa, all dem very most bad things did happen ... Cam Little, Granpoppy Jaimey and... And... and... Torry Little's bestest, goodest, prettiest, smilin', singin', happiest Momma... went away far an' far and far t' be a angel, Poppa."

"That's right, Torry, all those who loved Torry so much went far, far away. All those who loved Torry can never come back. That's why Torry has to learn to be still and silent, to be quiet and to always, always to be obedient. Isn't that so, Torry?"

The child's eyes shone with tears and his face crumpled mournfully. This Poppa sounded different from the last one; but he knew the same very bad very most secret things about Torry Little. This Poppa sounded like Remy; Torry Little's secret, most very secret Remy who made all the secret, very most secret games, very most scary, most secret plays with Torry Little. Somberly the blinded child nodded.

"Yes, yes, Poppa, Torry is knowin' that, Poppa." the child murmured. "Torry mus' be bedien, stay here, stay steeel, stay qwyat, den Poppa will mebbee, mebbee come see his Torry Little, no will Poppa come if Torry Little be noisy, be weelfu, be unroolee, be dis'bedien, be talkin' up, be runnin' around, be playin' in dem bad, awfullest places."

"Very well, Torry, you will obey these good people now, and stay here. If you are a good boy, Torry, if you do as Poppa says, it may be you can come home ... sometime." Beauvais said and left the maddened child to go on living the nightmare.

For two years, no one would connect Beauvais to the bizarre events at Baltimore's Maryland House. No one who could make that connection survived, except for a mad child in the County Asylum.

No one would find Stefan Aynsley, either. Within days of the bizarre events at the Maryland House that July, the Rosenburg went up in flames, following a huge explosion. Nothing was left when that fire died down except for piles of ashes, fragments of melted glass, singed pieces of steel, and the remains of a man burned too badly to be identified.

Those few who lived close enough to the Rosenburg to take note of the fire reported they'd hardly known and rarely spoken to the occupants of that ramshackle mansion. They described the man who owned it as tall, broad shouldered and dark, and the girl who lived with him as a high-strung, frail looking copper redhead. Now it appeared that both residents were dead, the man in this fire, the girl in a hotel corridor in Baltimore.

Then another young woman's remains were found, closed up in a small greenhouse behind the main house; and a pit grave behind the ruined stables revealed dozens of men's bodies, while traces of wheel tracks, footprints and hoof prints spoke of at least another man's presence at the Rosenburg around the time it exploded in flames. The second young woman would have been buried as 'Unknown' except for the steel cased, velvet lined minaudiere clutched in one hand that still held an old fashioned dance card, with two names written over and over: Cecily Ariadne Breckinridge and Lucien Jeremiel Beauvais.

Left with so many, so mysteriously dead, locals in Baltimore County worked quickly to bury the remains of both young women and the dead man decently if poorly at county expense. The graves were marked as those of Marguerite Elise Branoch, Cecily Ariadne Breckinridge, and Stefan Johannes Aynsley. The bodies from the pit grave, with no means of identification at all, were decently, respectfully reburied together as seemed proper at this late date. No one knew who those men were or how they came to the Rosenburg to die; no one but the only one of their murderers, and the only pair of their number to survive, Lucien Jeremiel Beauvais, Artemus Aurelius Marcus Gordon and James Kiernan Torrance West.

WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

SCENE ELEVEN

BALTIMORE COUNTY ASYLUM

INFIRMARY,

August 1874

Torry sat playing in the big room next to the infirmeree where Miguel, Jac, and Demos were playing their grown folks talkinup game again. They always played that kind of talkinup games now; and it didn't sound fun at all. Torry had a much better play, a new, wheeled toy from Quiet Tommy, that was shaped like a little geeraafh! Even better than having wheels to scoot around on the tables and floors here, this wheeled toy had a long neck that could turn and turn and turn some more till it's little geeraafh head comed off!

Delighted with this discovery, Torry bounced and squealed every time he turned the little geeraafh's woodenhead and found the empty space inside the neck. Quiet Tommy made more and more wheeled toys for Torry every time and all of them had good, secret places inside. Torry's remembering was much better now, so he could make the pictures in his head of when Quiet Tommy first came to see Torry Little in this big, noisy, scary place.

First, Quiet Tommy walked right down to Torry's corner all the way back in the back of the big, noisy, smelly place. Then Quiet Tommy came closer to the child than anyone did but the scary people had in a long, longest time. Gently, saying barely a word, Quiet Tommy put his hands around Torry's face, then on his shoulders and then on his back. Quiet Tommy was making some sounds then, that Torry didn't understand until he reached to touch his visitor's face. The older man's face was all folded up and sort of wet, Torry thought, and he was holding his mouth shut. This quiet, patient visitor was crying, the child thought; when no one but Torry had ever cried in this bad, scary place.

That was still the times when Torry couldn't be talkinup, Quiet Tommy smiled and sat down and waited there. After that, Quiet Tommy did the best things Torry remembered at all. He put some pieces of good, salty cheese, then some bits of sweet, chewy bread, and then some round, sweet pepp'mint drops on a piece of a blanket or rug on the floor between Torry and him. Bit by bit, Torry sniffed around like a puppy until he found these good stuffs and popped them quick in his mouth.

Best of all that, Quiet Tommy sat without bothering to say a thing, not making Torry talkup, not making Torry get up and go someplace bad, not worrying Torry at all. Then came the best surprising Quiet Tommy made the whole time. On the rug between him and Torry, he set a wheeled toy shaped like a tiny, tiny horse! This was the best toy Torry's remember had in it for a long, long longest time; and it had its own surprising inside.

On the little horse's tummy, Torry found an even tinier latched door and opened it up. The latch-door snicked open and closed as many times as Torry wanted it to. It was a wonderful toy and from somewhere a picture came into Torry's head about

a wonderful horse made with a door underneath. This was a story the little boy only knew bits of now, but that was enough.

From around his neck, once he was sure the little door in the little horse would keep shut when he wanted it to, Torry pulled a leather thong. Hanging from that thong, although the child had no memory of its origins was a secret he'd been left with, left with until someone came to sit with Torry again. A heavy, cold, bumpy piece of something as big as his thumb almost, with a hole in the middle, from Torry's perspective, this was a secret he was never to share until someone came who didn't scare Torry at all. That someone would then take this very particular secret to some other good, not-scary person.

Torry still couldn't talk to his quiet visitor; he only spoke at this time when he was brutalized or frightened to the point of screams. The child did not recognize Macquillan's rough voice or soft-spoken manner. Torry only knew this was person was not threatening or hurting him at all. He knew without the least understanding how that this quietly kind toymaker was to be trusted. Deciding that, Torry tucked the secret he'd been keeping on a leather thong around his neck for over a year, inside the wheeled horse and rolled it back towards the kind man with the folded up face.

Later, Thomas Macquillan would admit that although he recognized the brutalized, broken child-man in the corner as James West, it was only the sight of what dangled from one end of that fraying leather thong that made his recognition absolute.

This was West's class ring from the May 1861 graduating class of West Point. On each side of the heavy, lost-metal cast silver ring, the emblems of West Point and its Corps of Engineers were carved.

On its face, carved in the shape of a three-pointed medieval shield, a layer of bloodstone had been embedded. Inside its shank, an engraving made this ring one out of 45 designed by and made only for that class. 'JKTW', the engraving read, '12th of 45, V. MDCCCLXI, May, 1861'

Lucien Renaud Jeremiel Beauvais, the man who left Torry there intended him to be found, if only after a certain period of time; and wanted Torry's family and friends, his colleagues and his Commander in Chief to know what had become of James West, Macquillan and his associates believed. Torry knew nothing of that. His world had been bound by darkness, isolation, torment, nightmares, loneliness, and fear longer than he could recall.

Now that was changing, but the child did not and could not understand how those changes occurred or what they might mean. Torry only knew the nightmares that wrecked his sleep and the dictums that ruled his life; even when the former were eased and the latter were taken away. Now there was always someone sitting with Torry and listening to him, when he was able to talkup.

Now there were always pepp'mint drops or 'beeen suups' or, pieces of sweet crunchy onyuns, or applees, chewy pieces of bread instead of runny, lumpy, gritty stuff to eat; and with the opening of the long room next to the infirmary, Torry could sleep on a warm, soft cot with a blanket just for him and a soft, clean pillow. Now Torry was beginning to think the scary people were all gone away, or gone away most of the time, but that was beyond his imagination as a constantly frightened small boy.

His new friends, as Torry thought of Miguel, Quiet Tommy, Big laughing Neddy, Jac, Demos, Frankie and Jeremee, were keeping most of his nightmares at bay these days. Somehow, they were keeping the scary people here from taking Torry to the scary room for bad boys. Even when something unexpected sent Torry back into terrified silence, his new friends stayed beside him. They wanted him to sleep and eat good things and get better from his coughing and his fevers.

Those friends as they took turns keeping Torry safe from the monsters on two legs who preyed on all the inmates here, were rewarded by occasional lightning flashes of Westian humor, of Jim's sometimes boyish perspective, or the repetition of a

The blinded agent did not so much show recognition of his companions as he revealed memories from his boyhood or young manhood that Torry had no grasp of. Encouraged by these instants, which lasted only that long, the team worked on, and hoped for more. They felt they were seeing more of Jim's mercurial temperament and volatile emotions than ever before, as if he was showing them a collection of different masks or faces.

Miguel de Cervantes, Jacques D'eglisier, Jeremy Pike, and Harold Evans, the President's physician who came to see what could be done for Torry all expressed their opinion that these temporary changes could be a good sign. They might indicate a kind of progress from the dominating, terrified child-mind towards the fully comprehending grown man they knew. Evans immediately sent for the latest European journals and shared them with his medical colleagues. Whatever had triggered Torry's emergence from Jim West, it seemed a positive thing, for the child to sit back now and then, as it were.

The child still held 'the stage' most of the time as the months went on. Torry still believed he could never leave the scary place. He'd been severely warned to stay here, to keep silent, and to be obedient. He'd been in such pain and confusion for so long now that nothing but his darkness, his fear and his worries seemed real or lasting now. Torry likewise had no genuine memories of West's childhood and boyhood in Virginia and Pennsylvania. He only knew the lies Liesl, Aynsley, and Beauvais fostered and fed with torment. Only his past dis'bedien, bad boy behaviors were real to Torry now. Only the forbidding, bitter, unforgiving figure of 'Poppa' as portrayed by Aynsley and Beauvais was real to the child mind now.

Torry was to remain silently obedient always and only to those who knew and used his 'baby name'. He had been a very bad little boy. He could not be with even his stern, angry Poppa until he was absolutely obedient again. Otherwise, the child was to withdraw from any and all contacts giving no sign or signal of understanding.

For over a year Torry was in the hands of sadists as brutal and amoral as Beauvais himself, whose only use for the inmates of the asylum was to terrorize them. True sociopaths, these orderlies, guards, attendants and supposed physicians were only in that place to fill their own pockets with whatever they could steal from the inmates, and whatever they could glean from foodstuffs and other supplies that never reached the patients.

It was the terror campaign carried out by those cruel caretakers that left Torry and other helpless men here screaming and struggling to escape in any way possible to them. It was the 'treatments' these defenseless men received that sent them back to the wards even further broken down and more profoundly lost than before. It was the recent presence of Miguel de Cervantes and the members of Thomas Macquillan's team of agents that kept the sadists at bay these days.

A stalemate was in place for the time being, while the agents and their superiors sought to close down the asylum and take not only Torry but also all the others to safer, healthier confines. All the asylum's employees, and all the agents knew something was going to break that stalemate and sooner rather than later. While it endured, the inmates in general were safer and quieter, while the employees were increasingly frustrated and ready to take back their power at a moment's notice.

Torry was almost going sleeping today when something Demos and Miguel and Jac were talkinup about caught his attention. Mostly his new friends played the grown folks talkinup game too quietly for the child to hear. Grown folks games were of little interest to Torry, as long as they didn't end in a scolding or a ting for him.

"Liesl," Miguel was saying to Demos as Torry got off his cot and made his way along a path set for him between the two rooms, lined with other cots in case he fell, and defined by lengths of rope he could hold onto.

"Liesl Branoch was the man Aynsley's niece, you say?"

"His sister's daughter and his legal ward She was the only family member to survive the siege of Atlanta." Artemus nodded. "I ... I met her and her companion, a girl named Cecily... both redheads, both intrigued by what Aynsley was doing. I'm not sure they understood his purpose though.

"The companion, Cecily acted as if she was older and worldlier, she even flirted with me, that is with Third Lieutenant Arlen. Liesl was much more detached and ... yes, yes, I remember now. Where Cecily dressed in the latest fashion down to the least detail, Liesl wore deep, unrelieved mourning, and in a style nearly ten years old. Now this was in the winter of '71, you understand, seven years after Atlanta fell.

"When I reached the corridor outside the President's suite," Artie said and shuddered again, " on the day Jim went to see President Grant, Liesl Branoch was there in the hallway, dying. The explosion that blinded Jim ... fatally wounded her. She was past help from the get go. Nothing could have saved her.

"There weren't enough pieces of the weapon left to study; so going by what the President, and the first men in his detail to reach him saw, the gun chain fired and exploded as Jim was trying to keep the girl from firing on the President. She was entirely out of her mind it seems, screaming and cursing at both the President and Jim. When she fell to the carpet, Jim ran out of there like Orestes pursued by the Furies."

"Mr. Gordon, obviously that day is another one you'd prefer not to discuss," Miguel said quietly, studying the agent. "Yet I have the strong impression that you remember details about it which might help Torry, help Mr. West a great deal."

Artemus shrugged, hiding his surprise at what almost seemed compassion coming from the small doctor.

"That's what we all want, to help Jim... and Torry, sure. Well it was pretty grim going. The girl, Liesl... I knew it was her and not her companion because her hair was a much brighter auburn and more coarse, curlier. Also, she was all in black from her fingertips to her veiled hat down to her stockings and shoes. "She was dying as I said, but somehow she held on for hours. Her wounds were all in her upper torso, and those can take a long time... you both will know that. So there was the girl, Jim was gone; Mac, Jeremy, I think and Ned Brown were debriefing the President. The girl kept murmuring the same thing over and over and the more she said it, the more I wanted to throttle her then and there!"

"What did she say?" Miguel asked. "If she was dying, what could have made you that angry?"

"Quite possibly the worst thing Jim West could have heard at that point, when he was injured himself, blinded, bewildered and in horrendous pain. She was dying and yet she knew the worst thing she could say. 'Torry, Torry, Torry,' she said," Artemus went on, frowning darkly. "Torry, you did it, you did it, you did it. You killed him. You killed the Butcher for me... Torry, Torry, Torry,"

"Torry, Torry, Torry," the child man repeated, bringing all three men's full attention to him. He stood frozen in place, both hands clenched on the guide rope, his eyes streaming tears, his face a mask of pain.

"Torry, Torry, Torry, you did... you did... you killt him, Torry, Torry, Torry, you killt dem Boocher... Torry, Torry, Torry..." the child said, squinting and frowning in confusion.

Artemus moved first to gently, almost gingerly touch the child-man's thin shoulder.

"Torry," he said, wondering what he should be saying. "Torry, listen to me now. It's Demos, Torry. I'm right here with Jacques and ...Miguel. Torry, listen to me, I was there that day and you didn't hurt anyone, not anyone at all."

For a moment, it seemed the child was unable to hear the agent. Torry's mouth worked, his whole frame trembled, and his blind eyes fixed on the floor in front him. Then he reached out and Artemus grasped the child's hand.

"Demos?" Torry repeated, blinking and shaking his head. "Demos? Torry, Torry had bad dreams 'gain?"

"Yes, yes, that's right, Torry," Artie said, after glancing over his shoulder at the two doctors. Something about this sad, sick, yet brave little boy touched him. Something vulnerable he hadn't seen in his partner surprised the older man, and oddly enough, cheered him. "You were having a bad dream, that's all; but you woke up from it, Torry. You woke up from it by yourself. That's good. That's very good. You don't need to have those old bad dreams now, Torry."

"Don't like 'em," the child nodded. "Demos, Demos, Torry didn't do bad fings, Demos? Torry wasn't very bad and bad boy?"

"Not at all, no, Torry," Artemus warily answered. One wrong word, he was certain would revive the nightmare. "You see, that's the trouble with bad dreams, they aren't so, are they? They're all mixed up pieces and patches of scary things, but they're not so."

"Liesly," the child said now, alarming his friends. "Liesly falled down; Liesly falled asleepin'. Liesly falled asleepin'."

"Yes she did, Torry, that's so," Artemus said, looking to his colleagues who nodded encouragement. "She was ... Liesly was very tired and sad then, Torry. So she fell asleep."

"Liesly, Liesly, very tiredy," Torry muttered, blinking and staring at scenes he could not fully remember, much less make sense of now. The whole scenario was more complex and worrying than the child-mind could take in. Everything was upside down, as if he sat on a swing under the hollow oak beside his grandfather's stables and swung up into the air.

"Torry's so many much tiredy now, Demos. Torry's going asleepin' now," the child whispered, and curled up against the taller agent. In seconds, Torry was asleep again.

Artie shook his head and lifted his partner, probably forty pounds lighter these days than his run of the mill healthy one hundred and sixty pounds, to carry him back to the cot across the room. Jacques gave the same assistance to Miguel, whose joints were not treated kindly by the damp Baltimore climate no matter what time of year.

"That was a very near thing, right then," Artie said, shaking his head and turning away from the child.

"Torry still thinks it was his Poppa who took him away from the place where Liesl 'fell asleep'. Any minute he was going to call me, 'Poppa' and that just can't happen. It can't."

"Why do you say that, Mr. Gordon?" Miguel asked, with a tired smile at the corners of his eyes.

"The child stands in great need of someone far more on the model of his own, loving father. I grant you're not yet old enough for the role, of course. Actors have their limitations like everyone else, naturally."

Artemus frowned. "I'd guess if I could pull off King Lear ten years ago, I could certainly portray someone fifteen years older than I am now, Doctor. No, I say that because we would be in for a completely new world of trouble if ... if Torry woke up thinking I'm Stephen West. He didn't have such good luck with the last two 'actors' in the role, did he, Aynsley and whoever it was who forged Aynsley's name to the committal papers for Jim, that is for 'David Jonathan Traherne? Also when Jim...G-d willing gets back to himself, he would not be happy at all with my impersonating his father."

"Do we know those papers were forged?" Miguel asked, still watching the sleeping child.

"As a matter of fact, yes," Artemus said. "We know that Aynsley did not sign those papers himself. Tracking back from the identification of the girl at the Maryland House as his niece, we learned a fair amount about Stefan Aynsley, a fair amount, and not nearly enough, not yet.

"In this particular case, we learned about the forgery from finding letters Aynsley wrote to Liesl's parents in Atlanta, before and during the War. They were in the attic of the manse her father held there for twenty years. We learned that Aynsley emigrated from Austria after the Crimean War, and set up a practice of sorts between Washington and Baltimore. His sister wanted him in Atlanta but he refused to do more than visit her there.

"Aynsley claims in many of his letters to be more of a researcher than a physician. He said his reason for staying at a distance from his only remaining family was the privacy and quiet his research required. That's important now because research is expensive, and requires backers. Not to put too fine a point on it, Doctor, but I'd guess you know that."

"Certainly," Miguel agreed, choosing to ignore the jibe, which he felt Artemus used almost by habit rather than intent. "So we've learned more about this Aynsley. We know without much question what his research was intended to find; but we don't know for certain he's dead or who financed his so called researches."

"We might have a new lead on that last matter," Artemus said, pulling two legal briefs from the pocket of his leather bound pocket journal.

"It turns out some of the men who publicly claim to be investors in this charming establishment here are also on the Board of Directors of the Maryland Medical Association and of the Maryland House Hotel. We've gone through the lists, and eliminated most of them as suspects in this plot already,"

"Not all of these upstanding citizens have been freed from suspicion?" Miguel suggested.

"No, not all of them, no. You've read the reports, the testimony of the few people who were already in that hallway outside the President's suite when this mad girl appeared. Well, they all mention that when the Branoch girl fell to the floor, Jim took off running through the suite. He ran through the suite, burned, and blinded as he was, without touching, much less knocking over a stick of furniture, or upsetting a single vase. I know what that tells me,"

"That Mr. West had memorized the suite and its furnishings as if they were props on a stage?" Miguel suggested.

"Exactly; the thing is, the President hadn't stayed at the Maryland House before that week. He'd either stayed with friends in the city or at the Carroll House where the Service leased the rooms for him, and for the teams of agents who accompanied him. If Jim had dashed through the President's usual suite at the Carroll, no matter what his condition, no one would have been surprised." Artemus frowned.

"The people who financed Herr Professor Doctor Aynsley, the people who knew all about his researches as he loved to call them, the people who helped Aynsley work Jim West over for six months before that day also knew the layout, the dimensions, the décor and the floor plan of that suite. They knew there was a private hallway leading to the main doors. They knew there are service stairways at each end of the hallway behind the suite. They knew the President doesn't make a practice of allowing his protective detail to guard doorways and halls in a public venue. He hates that level of security and won't use it unless we insist.

"These bastards, these worthless, fatherless sons, however, they knew there was a service stairway at the back, leading to an alleyway that was not and is not used for deliveries to the hotel. Then somehow, somehow... they found out that the President agreed to boost the governor's strategy by staying at the Maryland House, which happens to have a new colonnade built by the governor's father in law's company. Damn them! As if it wasn't enough! Damn them to Everlasting Torment! If I believed in Hell, I'd damn them to the ninth circle! As if it wasn't enough!" Artie exploded and strode across the long room towards the doorway as fast as his legs would carry him.

WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

SCENE TWELVE

BALTIMORE COUNTY ASYLUM

INFIRMARY,

SAME DAY

"Mon ami, where are you going?" Jacques asked, managing to stop the older agent almost in mid stride.

Artemus stopped, turned around, and shrugged.

"Off to find those bastards and tear them limb from limb, or maybe hang, draw and quarter them for the sheer pleasure of sewing them up to start over again!"

"Having seen some of the results of your patchwork, Artemus, I must complement your hand with a needle and sutures," Miguel smiled. "Perhaps you should have been a surgeon."

"No, no, not I," Artemus answered, hiding his surprise when Miguel used his given name, shaking his head and half smiling at the idea. "My father wanted me to learn his chemist's trade, and I did. My mother wanted me to be a violinist, and I did that too. My street friends taught me how to grift with the best of them in the Tenderloin, and I learned to throw a danged good right hook then, too. Then I saw Hamlet, Richard III, Henry V, Merry Wives, Richard II, Much Ado, The Tempest, the Scottish play and King Lear in one fortnight onstage and... My fate was sealed, to be theatrical about it."

"Until the War, that is," Miguel suggested.

"Until the War came along and sort of interrupted everything for a while," Artie agreed. "But we digress, and I want to know something, Miguel."

"Naturally," Miguel grinned and then pulled a more somber expression down like a mask.

"I want to know why you haven't once looked surprised when Torry seemed out of nowhere, out of a blue sky as it were, to be markedly different for minutes, sometimes for an hour at time, or where Torry's concerned, as far as I can tell, for years now, from ... the man we know," Artemus said, frowning again.

"Why hasn't that either shocked or at least surprised you?"

"Conversely Artemus," Miguel demurred for a moment. "One might ask why it has surprised, much less shocked you?"

"One might," Artie agreed. "Only that doesn't exactly take this discussion forward, does it? You've already heard me more than once go into my own doubts, my fears, my suspicions and my confusion; and the help I had with all those things from the hopefully late Dr. Aynsley. He wanted me to fight this whole scenario here; with you here, with Jim... with Torry, tooth, nail, and claw until somebody, somewhere gave in. Well, I'm the one who gave in; because it was no help to Jim or anyone else, and ... and ... that little boy needs a damnable lot of help."

"My dear Adversary," Miguel chuckled. "If that was your notion of giving in; I hope never again to be the focus of your energies when you are not. So I will answer your question if you will answer mine- first."

"Damn right, my dear Doctor," Artie nodded. "Damned right you are. I'll take that deal, sure. Whatever you have to say can't worse than what I recollected a few minutes ago, almost worse than... almost, than the rest of what Aynsley and G-d knows who else wanted me to do... that day."

"What have you recalled, mon ami?" Jacques asked, making a point not to step between the taller, older agent and the doctor.

"Aynsley found out a whole helluva lot that he needed to know about the Maryland House, before Jim set one foot there, before Jim set one toe inside Aynsley's lab. Now I think you can guess, can't you Jacques who told Herr Professor Doktor Aynsley all he wanted or needed to know about that? I don't think I have to say it in so many words, do I, mon docteur ami? I don't have to tell either of you who gave Aynsley and company, including that mad little fiery-haired girl, all the information they could use. I don't have to say who started babbling and couldn't seem to stop when they used their isolation..." Artie shuddered, sighed, and went on.

"It wasn't big enough to call a room! It wasn't big enough to call a cell! It was the diameter of a well, a small well, meant for a farmhouse kitchen, you might say. It was ... something like ten or twelve, fourteen feet deep... not two stories... not that much... Pitch dark, not a scrap of light, not a whisper of sound, not a hint of warmth down there...

"So dark you could lose all sense of perspective, so silent, you lost all sense of balance, so cold... well, they say cold as the grave, they're wrong, it was colder than that! It was slick on all sides, like glass, or ceramics, pottery or hardened clay... no purchase at all, nothing to grab, nothing to hold, no foothold, no handhold... no scent... not even any scent..."

"So that when you were removed from that isolation, the relief you felt nearly caused you pain?" Miguel asked. "Yes, yes, that's what some of Torry's nightmares have been about, except that he couldn't begin to describe them as well. This helps, Artemus, this genuinely helps our efforts here. Go on my dear Adversary, go on. Naturally, when you were released from that darkness, that silence, that cold... you would fight to retain the least warmth, the least sight, the least word..."

" Outside that damnable ... metal trap...I started gabbling away and couldn't stop... my own voice, and the girl's, Liesl's voice, clear and plangent and broken with rage, Aynsley's voice, bitter and strong and dark as a good Irish stout...Cecily's light, musical, maddened voice... the other voice... the other voice...were the best things I'd ever heard." Artie shuddered, sighed, and looked away.

"... I can't, I can't remember what it sounded

like... an odd combination, I mean an unusual combination...French, but not French, not Paris, not Marseille, not Lyons, not Strasbourg... Creole, but not ... Jamaican, not Cuban, not ... the Bahamas... highly educated, no patois, no slang, European-educated... Southern... but not Louisiana, not Mississippi...not Texas at all... maybe western South Carolina along the Blue Ridge, maybe not...full of ice and poison...yes, full of poison...That voice, the one I can't pin down... that I can't name...could freeze the blood in your veins without even trying."

"You're giving a description as complex and complete of this man's voice as any I've ever heard, mon ami," Jacques offered quietly. "Certainly you'll know it if you ever hear it again."

"I just hope to G-d that never happens!" Artemus exclaimed. "I know, I know, I'll recognize that voice now the same way I'd know yours or Jim's or the Doctor's, no matter what else was going on around me. It just makes me cold through to my spine to think about it, to think about the man that voice belongs to, whoever the devil he may be. It makes me sick to my core to think I probably told him and Aynsley anything and everything they wanted."

"I don't think so, mon ami," Jacques said without looking up from the documents Artemus had been showing them all. "Non, I don't think so at all. I think you are doubting yourself and your strong will to a far greater extent now than you need."

"That's good of you, Mon docteur ami," Artie said. "What makes you so sure, aside from my renowned strong will and all that folderol?"

"Five of the names on these lists you brought today, mon ami, that's what assures me. Five of the men whoever they may actually be are claiming responsibility for this horrific place, for the hotel where James was injured, and for the licensure of physicians in the State of Maryland.

"Along with them, there is a story Miguel told me the second time I came here to see Torry and his new friend Mee-ggel. Let me have Miguel tell you the story first, Artemus, while I go through these lists again. It may be there are more enemies to find here. Miguel, remember an old man you made the acquaintance of here, a kind old man you told me about, named... Jean-Destin?"

"Jean-Destin Menardy," Miguel nodded. "He was nearly seventy-seven years old, I believe he told me, a true Creole, born near Port au Prince, Haiti. I met Jean-Destin because when I came to this marvelous institution, he was sitting as close to Torry as the child would then allow, quietly singing to him in French and Haitian Creole or Creole-French. This singing seemed to soothe Torry even then, but that was not all, I found in short order.

"The old man would hum, or sing songs he himself learned as a child on Haiti. They had lovely, calm melodies, so, at first I supposed it was simply the well-known effect of music that eased the child's constant fears somewhat. Any child, any over burdened spirit will respond to quiet, harmonious sounds and even more so to music.

"Well, Torry was not only listening to old Jean-Destin; he was singing exactly, repeating what the old man sang precisely, or humming the tunes of those folk songs, flawlessly. You take my point now, don't you, Artemus? The child knew the songs Jean Destin sang as well as the old man did himself.

"I grant you, I do grant you that James West has a better ear for music and for language than he usually lets on. That does not and cannot explain how five-year-old Torry, who remembers nothing of his actual childhood and certainly, nothing of his formal schooling is able to listen to and faultlessly reproduce the music and the words. He has no memory, except in moments as we just saw when the elder West emerges, of his schooling in New Orleans for example when he was thirteen or fourteen, of his adult travels to that city, to the West Indies, to Montreal, Paris or Marseilles.

"So I told Jacques about that good old man and his music; and our mutual friend-doctor informed me that Torry's aunt by marriage, the second wife of his uncle James Torrance was born and raised in Haiti. Not only that but she was in the habit years back of singing songs from her own childhood to Torry and his cousins."

"You're right!" Artie exclaimed, but in a slightly quieter tone than before. "Don't take this the wrong way, Doctor, or get the wrong idea, but you're one hundred percent right! Jacques, you're right too, but you already know that, right?"

"Naturalement," Jacques chuckled.

"Jaimey Torrance second wife, the only one of Jaimey's wives Jim has ever known is Alexandrine, Michaëla Genevieve Beauvais Parry Torrance. She was the first person to teach Jim French, and Creole-French. She taught him and his cousins to sing the songs she grew up with herself. Jim told me he was in love with 'Queen Alix ' from the time he could walk." Artemus finished, glancing at the sleeping child again.

"Beauvais, Beauvais... Beauvais... I've seen that name ... I've seen it... where?" the agent muttered, tapping his forehead.

"On these lists, mon ami," Jacques replied with a tired smile.

"Mais non, it is not James' aunt Alix who can be found there, although she may know who these supposed gentilhommes are in fact: Rainier Severin Duverny, Gaultier Honore Brunard, Josue Aristide Rochelin, Achile Orasme Ternier, and Prosper Emilien Beauvais Derosin."

"A cousin of Jim's aunt, maybe, that last one." Artie asked. "Or is that an alias, or are all of those names aliases for the conspirators we still haven't found? Don't tell me; let me guess! This is something Jim knows, except just at present he doesn't know any of it at all."

"You know Mme. Torrance?" Jacques asked his friend and colleague in turn. "Then I would say go down to Norfolk, mon ami, find out if she has the answers we need."

"Yes, yes, I'll go," Artie nodded, smiling at his friend's ingenuous expression. "And I'll tell Jeanny you wish you could come down for a visit yourself, mon docteur ami."

"Jeanny?" Miguel repeated, and then grinned widely himself. "That would be Torry's cousin Jean Torrance March, his young, widowed cousin, is that correct?"

"That's her," Artie laughed. "Pretty as a picture, too, especially now that's she's only wearing half-mourning for Tim March. The mauve and plum, lilac and lavender accents and trim do wonders for her coloring. I think Jacques has a photograph somewhere, don't you, mon docteur ami?"

Jacques frowned heavily at both his colleagues and stalked over to stand as if guarding Torry while the child slept, arms crossed over his chest, feet planted wide, clearly ready to defend something or someone at a moment's notice. It was hard to miss in the full afternoon daylight pouring into the infirmary now from the windows in the north west corner, that the Montrealer's color was a bit high, his hazel eyes sparked, and his thick sandy hair fell over his forehead without any regard to his professional dignity at all.

"I will send a note to Jeanne with you, mon ami," Jacques finally said. "That way you need not bother to memorize a message."

"A good courier always memorizes the letters he carries, Jacques," Artie laughed. "In case the dispatch case, or the papers get lost, like Lee's battle orders, just before Antietam."

"If you mean Sharpsburg, PlayActor, then say Sharpsburg, for the love of G-d!" A sharp, clear, bitter young man's voice called out across the infirmary.

"Sharpsburg was where we fought McClellan's blue bellies to a damn all stand off! Antietam ain't nothing but the creek running through there, with that bridge those same Yankees could barely keep a hold of that day! Maybe for all the good that damn all Lost Order did old Georgie-Wait-And-See-He's-Got-the-Slows McClellan, all y'all Billy Yanks ought to've stayed to home! Don't know what you'd come to know about riding courier, anyhow, PlayActor, don't know as you ever pulled that duty, anyway."

Turning in the direction of that voice, Artemus, Jacques and Miguel found the man they recognized as James West, half sitting up again on the cot, leaning on one arm and frowning scornfully in approximately their direction. Now he pulled off the woolen scarf Jean March had sent her cousin, shrugged off the warm suit coat that came with it, and rolled his blind eyes towards the ceiling as if thoroughly disgusted with the trio. His posture seemed more relaxed than Torry's or Jim's, but his manner was wary, tense and guarded.

"PlayActor?" Artie repeated, holding back an initial angry reaction. The fact that this personage looked like Jim was something he wasn't sure could be trusted any longer. The tone and the affect of this speaker was familiar, but not as the partner and friend he knew. Artemus studied this seeming newcomer and then bit back a groan. He'd seen him before without a doubt.

"PlayActor? That's what you used to call me when we met during the first winter of the War, but mostly behind my back! In turn, I called you Tin Soldier or Ramrod-Back or First Lieutenant-Wet-behind-the-Ears, remember that? You were the courier in those days. You took that duty ahead of anyone or anything because you loved riding like a madman from one encampment to another.

"Even better you loved riding behind the lines to take your crazy idea of a short cut! You should have been plugged, or captured or both a few hundred times at least, doing just that, you know, Lieutenant Courier. Oh, by the way, I'm starting to catch on here, I think: No matter who you look like or sound a little bit like, you're not Jim West! "

" Brilliant deduction, Old Man!" the man on the cot crowed. "Also, that's Captain Courier to you, Volunteer-Army-PlayActor! Not that any one could ever teach a damn all fool, damn Yankee like you to respect a Regular Army Officer or his rank!" the speaker who only looked like Jim West answered. "You should have kept to your showboats, carnies and touring companies, back then! If not you should at least have kept to sneakin', thievin', snoopin', lyin,' and spyin'! I took courier-duty because I knew better than most how vital it could be. Also, it got me out of those lousy, bug infested, fever ridden, mud-swamps they called camps back then. Damned if I was going to lay down and die of lung fever or chickenpox or mumps before the shootin' war could really get started!"

"Then what in the devil are you doing here, Courier?" Miguel asked, acting as if he'd met the speaker a thousand times before, because he was sure he had.

"I'll grant you it's not a swamp; but the fevers here are well and truly lethal and the inmates are dying like flies."

"Was it our idea?" the speaker, who seemed to respond to the name Courier, asked, frowning more in Miguel's direction. "Was it our idea in any way, shape or form, Doctor? Is that what you think after seeing us here all this time? What are you doing here then, if you weren't enlisted by Old Boston Mac to be the brains of the outfit?"

"Enlisted? No, no, I was definitely recruited for that post," Miguel replied, with a flashing grin. "Do you always answer a question with a stream of questions, Courier; or is that a trait you picked up from our mutual friend?"

Courier laughed heartily and harshly at that and looked to go on laughing for hours; then he shook his head, blinked and his hard-bitten affect vanished as quickly as it came. In its place a visibly cheerier, genuinely relaxed, and brightly grinning personage appeared, still within the thin frame and drawn features of Jim West, Torry, and Courier.

"DocM, you gotta know better than to get things backwards that way. You gotta know better after all this while, doncha?" This apparent newcomer asked, pulling the coat back on over his shoulders but leaving the scarf on the cot.

"How could old Cour pick up anything from Oldest? You're setting the whole danged Watch, all of the Fours in reverse if you think of it that way. It don't, mean to say it doesn't work that way, it couldn't, ever!"

Artie was following this conversation, which seemed to have shifted from including everyone here, to excluding himself and Jacques. Squinting and rubbing his ear, the actor-agent knew he wasn't getting to the heart of the matter yet; but he felt sure he was collecting parts of the answer de Cervantes had promised.

"Excuse me, excuse me," Artemus said, restraining himself from raising one hand as if he was in a classroom. "There are three of us here listening to you, whatever you call yourself. We're all here to help Jim, and we're all fairly bright, so how about dropping the wisecracks?"

"I didn't call myself anything, Temus," this fourth speaker said, turning his blind gaze more in Artie's direction. "My L, he's Smallest, called me Youngster, just like he called Oldest... Oldest... and Cour... Courier, that's how it works with the Fours. Also, if you're all so bright, Temus, why haven't you gotten us out of this rotten place in all this time?"

"Maybe because that process has proven even more tortuous than talking to you, Mon jeune ami," Jacques suggested, taking his turn. "I have the distinct feeling that Miguel, Artemus and I are coming into the middle of a conversation when we know nothing at all of its beginning. Nevertheless, I will try to answer your question:

"First of all, as you may be aware, James was committed to this place under a false name, and even those committal papers were forged. Since the time that was discovered we have gone to every imaginable authority in this region to attain his release on the grounds of false imprisonment with no success.

"Next, It seems that during the time since we discovered James here, those with any authority over this vile institution have changed on a weekly, if not a daily basis. In addition, we were first given to believe that Baltimore County, then the state of Maryland and following that, the city of Baltimore held responsibility for licensing this asylum's existence and care. Finally, we were told that a privately owned business amalgamation of some sort owns this property and acknowledges only the most tenuous of legal obligations to any governmental body."

"So, it never occurred to you that Oldest works for the President of the United States? It never occurred to you that he can pull us out of here and close this place down anytime he takes a whim to do that?" The fourth speaker asked, crossing his arms over his chest in typical Westian style, but with a lot less patience than his friends were used to seeing in the agent.

Artie would have laughed at that question if he hadn't been even more tempted to smack the smirk off this youngster's face.

"You can't really think the President could do that, can you?" the agent asked.

"There isn't a war on right now, not that I know of. So the answer is no, he absolutely cannot interfere in local politics, much less in a local, private business."

"And you, all of you, none of you know yet who actually owns and runs this private corner of hell? None of you know who's behind this whole disaster?" Youngster demanded.

"We thought you were geniuses! We thought you were spies! We thought if you put your heads together, you and the Colonel, Mac, Frank, Jere, Ned, maybe even old Bosley who can't forget anything ... and you three could find out what needs to be found out for us and the rest of the poor devils stuck in this place, and do what needs to be done here!"

"Are you saying you know the answers to those questions, and haven't bothered to mention it? " Artemus demanded, glaring at the speaker whose affect was years younger than Jim's, somewhat younger than Courier's, but a good decade older than Torry's.

"Are you saying you know these answers, and haven't bothered to confide them with us?" Jacques asked, shaking his head in angry bewilderment.

"Most of us hardly know you!" Youngster blurted.

"Most of us only know you through Oldest, so that's what... ten years or so now? Except for Mac, who's been around for just about ever, we don't know you! So how in the very devil should we trust you? You don't know the first thing about the Fours, not even DocM who has a lot of things figured! You just proved that!

"Also, our luck with grown folks has never been that fine and dandy; although there have been exceptions. Only most of them are gone now, like Dad, like Granddad Torrance, like Uncle Morgan in Philadelphia, like Danny Morrissey, Neddy Ashton, and the rest of our older cousins who died in the War! When Granddad died, and the house burned down, we almost lost momma, too! Only if you can't guess that on your own that's something the Ls can't hear a word about, and can't ever talk about with anyone, it don't matter who!

" If we could tell you the things you're asking don't you think you'd know it already? If we could tell you what you think you want to know, but you really, really don't, don't you think we would have already? Just tell us, how in the devil are we supposed to confide in strangers who don't even understand the simplest part of this tangle?"

"Youngster," Miguel said, frowning but with a more bemused tone to his voice. "We want to understand all there is to be understood about you and Mr. West, and Courier, and Torry. Are you saying now that there are things you cannot tell us, questions you cannot answer?"

" 'top! 'top! 'top dis all ri' nows!" Torry's now-familiar, five year old's voice called out, just as Youngster looked as though he was about to answer Miguel with a nod of the head. The child they were used to seeing in the frame of Jim West turned his head anxiously from side to side as if he was trying to look for his friends. His bright, blind eyes wide as saucers, Torry reached out and clutched at the men, as Artemus brought Miguel back across the room and Jacques followed. Immediately, as he had less than an hour before, Torry clung to Artemus' coat sleeves as if to keep from drowning.

"Miguel, Jac, Demos! Wees no can be talkinup all dis! Wees no can be talkinup dis! Wees no can be tell dis! Wees can't! Wees can't! Wees can't! Is dis'bedien! Is willfu! Is n'rulee! Is no dutafu! Is no bedien! Is no Gud Like Small Genlmenns! Is veryiest bad an' bad' an veryiest bad boys talkinup dis! Is veryiest bad an' bad next up with goin' ways wifout us'ns Poppa!"

Artemus and the doctors exchanged glances and no one spoke for a moment.

"Torry," Artemus finally said, almost absent-mindedly rubbing the child's back to ease him.

"Torry, I'm sorry, we're all sorry we pressed ...you, that way. That wasn't fair. We... we won't do it again. Promise."

"J't' promet," Jacques agreed.

"Prometo," Miguel added.

"Fanksu," Torry muttered, not seeming the least confused by the different languages. " Wees no wants any maddys wif us'ns guddes' friends here... us'ns guddes' guddes' ever Demos, an' Jac, an Miguel."

"Maddys like that mostly come from scaredys, don't you think, Torry?" Miguel asked quietly.

"We're all sorry you were so scared, just then. We're here to keep the scaredys away, as best we can. You know that, don't' you?"

"Uh-huh," Torry nodded. "Wee's can be talkinup some of fings, some of dem times... just no can be talkinup dem old baddes ever scaredys. Wees should no be lettin' us'ns brovvers be talkinup so many much here, is veryiest most scaredy. Us'ns ovver four.. Us'ns ovver brovvers be natterin' ... many much of times... more many than Natterin'... dems should no be did that."

"Nattering... more than..." Artie repeated and shook his head in puzzled frustration. "Torry, listen... I don't know ... even as much as I thought about all this; but I do know we pushed you... to talk to us. So, it's all right for you to ... well, scold us."

"It is also all right for you to talk with us, when you can, as you can, mon enfant," Jacques added. "We are here to help and listening does help, we know that."

""Uh-huh," Torry agreed, nodding as solemnly as any high court judge. "Wees be knowed, us'ns guddes' new friends be confuddled... uh-huh?"

"Uh-huh," Miguel answered, chuckling. "So, instead of bothering with maddys or scaredys, why don't you tell us some few happier things about your brothers?"

"Uh-huh!" Torry grinned and then looked thoughtful. "Only can Torry has some of applees or onyuns or crackers or cheeses or pepp'mints, cornbreads or pies or chewy breads wif beeen suups or mater suups or tatoe suups some times? M'hundry."

Now all three of Torry's grown friends laughed with relief. This was not only a much happier little boy talking; but also a healthier one with an increasingly healthy appetite. It was beginning to look like their time, again.

WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

SCENE THIRTEEN

BALTIMORE COUNTY ASYLUM

SECOND FLOOR WARD-INFIRMARY

SIX WEEKS LATER

Times seemed to be changing rapidly at the asylum; pressure brought from local and other sources was felt throughout the compound. Influenced by the interest of their constituents in the independent city of Baltimore, regional and local officials began their own investigations. Legal proceedings started in civil courts as it became clear that many inmates were held there due to fraudulent committals. Cases of men gone missing in the past decade alone were being opened in the courts and by the city's constabulary.

The city and county of Baltimore were equally interested in the unpaid taxes on the property. They intended to collect the amounts in arrears, either from the owners or by public auction. In either case, the asylum would close forever. That inescapable result meant the same local officials had to find alternate housing and care for two hundred and forty-seven inmates. It was that particular quandary that slowed the process. For most of August the caretakers, executives, and politicos of Baltimore debated, discussed, but could not decide that pragmatic issue.

The team of agents led by Thomas Macquillan and Artemus Gordon got busier than ever that fall. Lawyers for the Service and for the families of inmates, including James West were pressing criminal charges as well as civil suits. An allied team of agent-physicians and nurse-hygienists arrived with authorization from the city, the county, and the legislature to renovate and clean the buildings, the wards, the courtyard, and the so-called treatment rooms. Despite its private status, the administrators of the asylum were finally learning they could not ignore local officials once those officials stopped ignoring them.

Agents were still following leads on the men who owned an interest in both the asylum and the Maryland House. Jim West's Aunt Alix verified that her brother Lucien Beauvais used two of those names as aliases. He had a penchant for privacy, if not anonymity; and when not living as a wealthy recluse on his estate near Athens, traveled the Continent and the Caribbean, often returning to their first home on Haiti, Alix Torrance told them. He kept his business and social contacts as private as his homes. Neither Alix nor Jaimey Torrance were on the guest list there, Alix also revealed and gave the agents her perspective on the reasons.

"Remy, that's his nickname, fell out with me and with Jaimey a little while after we were married. He never said why; but I suspect it was partly my brother's exaggerated, unwarranted condescension. He looks on Jaimey's family as tradesmen because they've been breeding horses and building ships for four generations.

"Also, my brother has for a long while had habits and friends he knows I cannot abide. We were close as children; but for years now Remy has ignored my love and concern for him. His mother raised him, and Miss Helene was an eccentric person to say the least. She and our Daddy are long gone now; and Remy blames Daddy for any and all of his troubles. In my opinion though, it is Miss Helene's influence that did him the most harm."

"Is there any reason, Mrs. Torrance," Jeremy Pike asked while visiting with her and all of Jim's family in Norfolk. "That is, do you know of any reason why Jim West, who has often mentioned how fond he is of you, that you were a second mother to him after Mrs. West passed away, has never talked about your brother to any of his friends?"

Alix paled somewhat and looked down at her hands, then over to her husband who sat on a divan in their Norfolk parlour with her. When she started to speak, faltered, and fell silent again, Jaimey Torrance squeezed her hands and looked at Jeremy.

"Dr. Pike," the older man, who showed a family resemblance to Jim, except that his thick hair was graying-red, said. "I think when he was in grammar school my nephew was a bit intrigued by my old friend Remy. Alix and her brother had already traveled around the world by that time, for one thing. They'd lived in the West Indies off and on for a long time. Well, Remy has always been something of a character, and a show-off, if you take my meaning. He fascinated Torry and my older son Paul, and the boys they were friends with at that time.

"Then, when Torry was home from prep school the summer he turned twelve, he had an awful, just awful row with Stephen. Torry ran away from home. He was gone nearly four months. Stephen was so worked up and down right heart-broken over it that he nearly had a stroke. Well, we found Torry in New Orleans, half-starved and terribly ill with malaria," Now Jaimey fell silent for a moment before he went on.

"When we got Torry home and well again he wouldn't, and it almost seemed he couldn't talk about what happened at all. We knew some of it, because he'd been so delirious at first. He'd become a poor little street beggar, our Torry. That was one part of the story. The other part was that even though Torry would never say so when he was well again; we learned that Remy was the one who helped him to run away and took him from Wilmington down to New Orleans. Since that time, unless it came up in some ordinary discussion, Torry has had nothing at all to say about Remy. "

Jeremy made a few notes in his well-worn pocket journal and then accepted the cup of tea Mrs. Torrance poured him. That gave the Vermonter a chance to make a casual study of Jim's uncle. The older man was seriously ill and didn't want it widely known, Jeremy thought. Jaimey Torrance was in his early seventies and gave the appearance of being vigorous and cheery.

What Jeremy saw to tell him different was some swelling in Torrance's legs, a slightly jaundiced tint to his skin, and certain queasiness as he turned down the pastries his wife offered. Occasionally the older man scratched at his neck, or clutched his stomach for an instant. Once or twice, he blinked in apparent confusion when Alix asked a question. Jeremy wondered if Alix Torrance knew her husband was suffering from liver disease, possibly cirrhosis, an infection, or a cancer. The way she covered for Jaimey's moments of confusion and doted on his jokes made Jeremy think she knew her time with Jim's uncle was to be counted in months, if not in weeks.

Jeremy frowned and shook his head. "I get the feeling all that was hard for you to talk about, Mrs. Torrance, Mr. Torrance. I appreciate it, very much. All of us who are trying to help Jim now are grateful for your candor and your support. Our young friend doesn't talk about his family very much, with the exception of you two, Jeanny, and his parents. Offhand I'd say that makes you very special."

"Torry's very special to all of us down here, Dr. Pike," Alix said. "He's so like Stephen in some ways, and so very like Jessellyn, which is what we called his momma. We're very grateful in return that he has so many fine, brave friends."

"Well, not to push any advantage that might give me," Jeremy said, "there's something else my taciturn friend Jim has never told me; and it turns out maybe I should have asked him. Why do you call him Torry?"

Now both Torrances smiled brightly and set to work to ease Jeremy's curiosity.

"When Jaimey came home from Chattanooga with Jeanny and little Pauly," Alix said,

" I came north to see my dearest friend and met his nephew for the first time. Remy... came up with me. Torry won't actually remember that time; maybe that's why he doesn't mention it. It was in December, thirty years ago or so; and there were some terrible storms that winter that had the whole family housebound. Well, aside from trying to cheer Jaimey and those precious children, as their mother had only died that summer, everyone was charmed by Torry and his twin sister Meghan.

"They were all of seventeen months old and tow-heads bright as two drops of sunshine. Those two were boisterous and smart as a whip. They never knew a stranger and never balked at a challenge. They kept the adults and other children in the house running after them most of the day and night, with those chubby legs and splay-backed posture. They were each on horseback as soon as they could sit upright and crawling on a ships' deck around the same time!

"What you might not know, Jeremy is that Raicheal Torrance, Jaimey's momma ruled that roost as long as she lived. Her word was law. So, when she decided that calling that busy little boy Jaimey wasn't going to work very well with two other Jaimey's in her house, she came up with a typical solution.

'When my father in law Aidan Torrance came to the Chesapeake, and then to Virginia, people first called him Dan, Danny or Daniel. He'd have none of that, and told them to call him by his grandfather's nickname, which was Torry. That was more than sixty years before the Revolution, so they didn't and they couldn't have meant he was a 'King's man'. So, we're going to call this baby boy Torry.' She then looked down at the child and smiled. 'How do you like that name, Torry Little? Look! Look at that child grin! You like being called Torry Little, don't you?'"

"Well, thank you, Mrs. Torrance," Jeremy grinned, having a clear image his mind of Jim West at seventeen months grinning the way his older self did when he won something he wanted.

"Now, will you please stay a few days with us? Torry's sisters are coming up from Wilmington and down from Richmond and Frederick. They'd be so pleased to meet you."

"I'd be delighted to, Mrs. Torrance," Jeremy smiled. "I've corresponded with Meg and with your namesake, Alix; but somehow I've always missed the chance to meet them and their sisters."

"Then its about time you did," Alix smiled in turn.

Over the next week, Jeremy got to meet and spend time with a growing number of Jim's family, including his siblings, his first, and 'once removed' cousins. Raicheal West Cooper and Meri West Temple, Alix West Traherne, Meg, Bree, and Emmy West soon charmed Jim's friend as completely as their cousins, Jeanny March, Jessy, and Doni Torrance. When the weekend brought a larger gathering, one that overflowed the Torrance' house and garden; Jeremy met, dined, danced and found himself happily flirted with by Isabel Stewart, Emma Traherne, Celia North, Sian McGregor, Zara Randolph, Sorcha Mahony, Anastasia Deveraux, and Mira Singer, all of which ladies appeared to be Jim West's 'kissing cousins'.

The agent enjoyed their company and collected the letters they wanted sent north to 'our poor Torry'. Jeremy also gained an understanding that all these ladies and their brothers, husbands and fiancées were kin, neighbors and staunch friends of the West-Torrance brood. He listened with interest to childhood stories that he hoped he could plague Jim about in future. He especially coaxed these caring, loving people to share memories they thought would comfort the young man they all missed greatly.

On his last night in Norfolk, Jeremy played chess with Jaimey Torrance, with assistance on each side by Alix Torrance and Raicheal West. It was a relaxed competition for the most part, although Jaimey displayed his nephew and namesake's lightning wit and his stubborn streak more than once. When Alix insisted her husband take his leave for the evening, Jaimey shook his head and walked Jeremy into his study to talk 'man to man, not old man to doctor.'

"How is my sister's boy, Dr. Pike? How is Torry these days, really?"

"Mr. Torrance," Jeremy began to say, only to have the older man lay one long hand on his arm.

"I thought by now you would call me Jaimey as everyone else does, won't you, Jeremy?" Jaimey asked with a tired grin very much like one of Jim's.

"Certainly," Jeremy agreed. "I'll be glad to do that, Jaimey. Now, about Jim, what in particular would you like to know?"

"Well, as you've already said, a great many good people are working hard to have the boy released; I wondered if it's still being considered that his eyes ... his vision might be restored to him. Is that possible?"

"Jaimey, I wouldn't have thought so a year ago, just to be honest. Now I've begun to study the procedure, so that I can assist when it happens. So, now I am a great deal more confident. A whole team of doctors are preparing to perform this surgery as soon as possible after Jim is out of that place."

"I see, I see," Jaimey nodded. "What does this surgery actually involve, though? What can be done at this point, at this late date?"

Jeremy coughed to clear his throat and sipped some of the bourbon Jaimey poured for him. The older man no longer imbibed, as far as Jeremy had been able to tell. He knew his own terminal condition to at least some extent.

"This may sound as bizarre to you, Jaimey as it did at first to me. The procedure is intended to replace the patient's damaged corneas with healthy ones. To prepare, we've done a fair amount of laboratory work, with ... animals; something that is not new at all, but has been done since the time of the Greeks."

"Yes, yes, so I've understood from Thomas' letters to Alix, Raicheal, Paul and myself. My son Paul holds Torry's power of attorney for him at present. I turned it over to Paul, since after all, he will be available to help his cousin out far longer than I will." Jaimey answered.

"Now, you will require a human donor, another person's ... organs, when the time comes that this surgery can be done, isn't that so, Jeremy?"

"Yes," Jeremy said, wondering what the older man was thinking, or if he was becoming confused again. Jaimey put that latter question to rest in the next moment.

"Jeremy, my son Paul is also the executor for my estate, and for the estates left to Torry and his siblings by Stephen and Jessellyn. The reason I bring that point into our discussion is as follows: In my will as it presently stands, as I re-wrote it last winter, I am offering your medical team the organs they require to help my sister's son. I am offering Torry my ... eyes, as it were, being as I shall not require their services much longer. G-d willing the boy will be helped in that way. " Jaimey Torrance said and fell silent a moment.

"You already guessed as much, I'd think."

"I did, yes," Jeremy answered. "And I must say, sir, I wish I'd had the opportunity to know you sooner. I truly admire your courage. Jim must certainly be proud of his namesake."

"Torry's had very few occasions to be proud of his old Jaimey, I'm afraid. I have lived long and full to be sure, Jeremy; I passed my 89th birthday in February. G-d knows I have always wished to; but I have not always done my best by my family. I feel the distinct need to do whatever I may for them while I have the time. I suppose you might say this old rapscallion of a fellow is trying to make amends while he still may," Jaimey said, and then looked away, as if his thoughts would be too plainly seen in his bright green eyes.

"Jeremy, if I may confide something in you, something that only Alix and her brother, and to a lesser extent Torry are aware of at all," Torrance said.

"Of course, I'm glad to be of assistance," Jeremy agreed. "That's why I became a doctor,"

"I can see that, I can surely see that," Jaimey nodded. "Jeremy, my brother in law, Lucien Beauvais would never have met my sister's son except as he did, through me. At least it would have been extremely unlikely that they should know one another. Well, as it now appears, Torry has come to a great deal of this terrible harm through knowing Remy Beauvais, or rather through Beauvais knowing him.

"That being the case, that being the case, Jeremy, I feel an enormous responsibility, a tremendous debt to my nephew, all the more because both his dear parents have been gone so very long now. Jessellyn, my younger sister, was so bright and beautiful, so warm and loving and quick witted... and something of a hoyden when she was growing up. Everybody loved my sister.

"Torry in many ways is the image of his angel momma; he has her smile, her fine, high forehead, her well made conformation as you might say and her bright, bright Kiernan green eyes. He has her brilliant charm as well, our Torry. We were close as two peas in a pod growing up, Jessellyn and I, partly because so many of our siblings were lost to cholera, influenza, and scarlet fever.

"Then Stephen, who you might have thought had some trouble adjusting to life here in northern Virginia came to buy breeding stock for his father's lines up near Chambersburg, and fit in with us, hand in glove. We became great friends, Stephen and I, and like Jessellyn, everyone loved the man who ever met him.

"Well, Stephen and I fell out for a time and he was in the right of that particular argument, I can tell you. Yet, Stephen came to me, asking my forgiveness for the quarrel. So, we made it up and remained friends through the rest of his life.

"Torry has his father's strength and gift with people and animals alike. He has Stephen's well-deserved pride and strong sense of purpose. He could no more be a dilly dallier like his old Jaimey than he could fly to the moon. When Torry and Stephen fell out for a time, it was their opposing ideas about Torry's purpose, Torry's future that caused it, not anything about their cherishing one another."

"I've heard Jim saying much the same thing about his disagreements with his father," Jeremy noted.

"They became very close again when Jim was able to come down to Norfolk before and during the War."

"Yes, yes, they did, thank G-d for that; since we were not to have Stephen with us much longer and never knew it."

"What caused Jim's father's death, if you don't mind my medical curiosity?" Jeremy asked.

"Not in the least," Jaimey half smiled. "Stephen when he was a small boy, went through a bout of scarlet fever, and as happens so often, a bout of rheumatic fever that followed. It left him with a heart murmur caused by mitral valve stenosis. Stephen spent the first three years of the War traveling from Norfolk to Richmond, sometimes up into Alexandria, sometimes down as far as Wilmington to care for the poor sick and wounded boys who came into the hospitals there.

"He didn't take up the Confederate cause by any means whatsoever. He never saw his work in that way, but only as his sworn duty as a physician. While he was doing that, wearing himself down, hardly resting, news came that our Nevan, Torry's second born brother died during the Seven Days' battles. The boy was following in Stephen's footsteps as a doctor, you see.

"All by itself, Jeremy that blow nearly killed our Stephen. He had a mild stroke at the time; and came home to us for some months, then. Well, by that time, Norfolk was back in Northern hands; and Torry rushed down to see his Daddy. That bucked Stephen up immensely, naturally. He went back to his hospital work, but stayed around Norfolk, and didn't travel. Stephen suffered a bad heart seizure the following spring and he was in a bad way. Torry and his sisters all came home and ... that good, good man died with his children around him."

"I see," Jeremy said quietly. "Thank you, thank you very much, Jaimey,"

"You're welcome, quite welcome. As for Torry being proud of his old namesake, you have that in reverse order. I am now as I have been all his young life, immensely, immensely proud of Torry. He is and he has always been the shining star of our brood, the finest of our line, the most..." Jaimey sighed and then gasped with pain, just barely touching his stomach. Jeremy gave him a sip of tea with a mild dose of the laudanum he found in a tiny bottle on the tea tray. In a short while the older man was breathing more easily and shaking his head

"I'm quite the old derelict these days, Jeremy, and everyone knows it. Yet, these dear, dear people still put up with old Jaimey. It passes understanding, sir. It truly passes my understanding. Oh, Jeremy, one more thing before Alix countermands my request and keelhauls me off to get my beauty sleep. Unless it's required for some reason, I'd just as soon not have Torry know about my will, not for the short term at least."

"I'll consider it a privileged communication, of course, Mr. Torrance," Jeremy said.

"Jaimey, you said you would call me Jaimey," the older man said, canting his head with a wink and a grin. "It's no time for formalities, is it?"

WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

SCENE FOURTEEN

THE MARYLAND HOUSE

THE IMPERIAL SUITE

ONE WEEK AFTER JEREMY'S VISIT TO NORFOLK

"Well, time to be done with this intensely incommodious business at long last," Lucien Jeremiel de Villefort Beauvais said to his reflection and his valet, a rail thin, deaf-mute mulatto boy of ten from Port au Prince, named Dante.

Dressing in an ice-grey suit of fine merino wool, with a black and grey brocaded silk vest and tie over a pearl grey silk shirt, the Georgian brushed back his silver-grey hair and smiled at his mirror.

"One cannot, however inconvenient or unfortunate that is, have all that one desires. One can arrange matters to make up for those deficiencies the tiresome humdrum world is so full of, and one must."

Turning to face his valet, Beauvais indicated to the boy, by a series of gestures, and lip-reading what he was to do while his master went about business for the day. The child nodded, and rushed away. That this child lived in dread of his displeasure pleased Beauvais no end. The small matter of the boy's impairment was also much to the Georgian's liking.

For fifty-eight of his sixty-nine years, Lucien Beauvais had taken his pleasure from the dread, the terror and the pain his powerful personality and even more powerful drives created in the children

he bought and sold, subjugated, abused and dominated. Never once in did the Georgian consider that their terror and suffering mirrored his own as a tiny boy in his mother's varied luxurious, horror filled homes. Never once did Beauvais think of Lady Helene with anything but profound adulation and genuine mourning. She died during the third year of the War Between the States, or the Late Conflict, as he called it; and he still vowed to create a shrine out of the success of his conspiracies dedicated to 'The Great Lady South'.

Only once while she lived had Lucien Beauvais acted against the dictates of his lady mother. Inordinately concerned with keeping her son at her side; Lady Helene forbade seventeen-year-old Lucien, already called Remy by family and friends, to attend William and Mary on a special scholarship. Her son was disobedient for the first and last time in his life; and as she predicted, bitterly regretted the decision.

In the fall of 1821, Remy attended the world-renowned Virginia University and met James Kiernan Torrance. Charming and personable, always open and easygoing with acquaintances and strangers alike, Jaimey included the younger student in his study groups and other activities because Remy seemed miserably lonely and homesick. Remy responded by becoming more forthcoming to Jaimey and Jaimey's friends than he had ever been before, or would ever be again.

The College as a whole however was not a good match for the high-strung, relatively countrified youth from Athens. Nor was Remy a good match for the College. He had a dilettante's interest in a few of the subjects taught there, but no aspirations to read Law, study Science, Philosophy, or Medicine whatever. He'd rebelled to come to William and Mary, now he rebelled against its young Tidewater aristocrats and its snobbish customs. Only Jaimey Torrance seemed a sympathetic friend and Jaimey ruined that for Remy at his first meeting with Alix Beauvais.

She was Remy's younger half sister and at age fifteen and a half, already a lovely, accomplished, self-assured Southern woman. Despite Lady Helene's displeasure in the matter, following her divorce from Lucien, Sr., Remy adored Alix and imagined her on nearly as high a pedestal as his mother. With a heart shaped face, lively dark eyes, and often-unruly dark curls, came to Williamsburg to reunite with her half brother.

When she understood Remy's troubles there, she decided to take him home to Augusta where Lady Helene had relocated that spring. Remy acquiesced, longing for the way of life he was accustomed to as his mother's spoilt lamb. Then he watched as Alix made twenty conquests in a week amongst the 'pseudo-aristocratic Tidewater brats' who had rejected Remy's apparent backcountry naiveté.

Jaimey Torrance soon became conquest number twenty-one and the matter was sealed for all time as far as Remy Beauvais was concerned. The romance that began and continued from that day poisoned Remy's friendship with Jaimey and alienated him from his sister for the rest of their lives.

That Remy felt called upon to conceal his enmity from the lovers was just another drop in his cup of bitters. He would play the genial, affectionate matchmaker in their company for the next four decades and a little more. When Jaimey Torrance married another Southern girl, and Alix went to Europe to spend time with Lucien Beauvais, Sr. Remy took his time, his wealth and his passions elsewhere as well. While Jaimey lived with his wife, her family, and their daughter Jean in Tennessee, Beauvais allowed himself to ignore that part of his life for nearly a decade.

When Jaimey returned to Norfolk a new widower with two small children, Jeanny and Paul, Beauvais only had the news second hand from a letter Alix sent. She was in Port au Prince that winter, Lucien Sr. having returned home to die. She was booking passage to Norfolk as soon as she could, eager to see and comfort her long ago beau. Remy wrote back at once, saying he would meet her when her ship docked briefly at Savannah and join his sister for the rest of the trip north.

Meeting Stephen and Elly West, their children and the rest of the family there, Beauvais maintained an affect of polite interest in their 'little lives' as he put it. All the while, he was watching Jaimey Torrance for whatever cues or hints he might give as to his weak points, his Achilles' heel. Jaimey, mourning his first wife was hardly his charming self in those days; but he was welcomed home by his parents and siblings with warmth and compassion. They all knew Jaimey's flaws and failings, Remy noted, and cared nothing about them.

Jaimey had been a wastrel, a rake, and a restless wanderer before his marriage to Cathleen Anne Mahoney from Chattanooga. She loved the rapscallion and 'only trimmed rather than clipping my wings' Jaimey said. He loved her with all his heart and by all accounts made 'Lee-Anne' happy. Together they had three children, Jeanny, Paul, and Robin, and settled near her family in eastern Tennessee. Only at her death did Jaimey think of returning to Virginia and his parent's home in the hills west of Norfolk.

Remy Beauvais knew all there was to know about Jaimey Torrance, he'd made it his business to pay to keep tabs on his one time friend. Now, visiting along with Alix, he saw Jaimey engulfed by his family, cherished, coaxed, and comforted at every turn. Added to that, he saw that Alix, without saying a word or making a gesture that was not in keeping with the widower's bereft status, still cared greatly for Jaimey. The old wounds from Jaimey's perceived insults to Remy's pride and Remy's family flared to life.

Then Remy made the acquaintance of Jaimey's seventeen-month-old niece Meghan and her twin, James, soon to be nicknamed Torry. Jaimey seemed especially cheered by the tow-headed little boy, who giggled and squealed as they played toddler games together. Beauvais knew what he would do now to repay the wrongs he still believed Jaimey had done him. He would take his recompense and revenge against both his sister and his one time friend from Jaimey's namesake from the time Torry was seventeen months old.

In due time, Beauvais intended Jaimey Torrance would learn all that revenge entailed, all that it cost his cherished nephew and namesake. As time went on, the Georgian plotted, planned, imagined, and reimagined the day his retribution would be revealed in full. Surely Jaimey would die of shame when he knew the price Torry paid in his stead; but if he refused to cooperate with that surety, another measure of disgrace and then another and then another would slam Jaimey into the waiting grave.

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This morning Beauvais walked into the drawing room, which took up most of his suite. Some matters of business, such as the one he faced now could not and would never be left to intermediaries. Some tasks he must be entirely certain would be carried out, whether through threats, payments, or both. Waiting for him now was a group of men very different from most of those in his employ. They were half a dozen ruffians whose line of work usually found them around the shipyards, docks, and warehouses of Fell's Point.

The oldest of this sextet, a grizzled, sun burnt, wide eyed old sea dog pulled off his knit cap as Beauvais entered the room and nudged the men with him to do the same.

"Hoping you don't mind, sir," he said, touching his forehead as a show of respect.

"Your lads on the docks said we were all right to come up today, as long as we used one or other of the back stairs here."

"Just as they were instructed," Beauvais nodded and gestured to the other equally rough looking men. He didn't like them coming here, but there was work only this particularly burly and violent type of men were good for, to be done and quickly. "This then is the whole of your company for the task at hand?"

"These lads will be all that's needed, sir," Grizzle-head said. "They know their way about the neighborhoods, these lads do, sir. They'll be in and done and out again quick as you please, sir. Just let the word be given."

"That it will be, at the proper time," Beauvais frowned. "First one must be left without any doubt that the task you will perform is entirely understood. Therefore, you will explain it to them while one listens for any least miscalculation or other error. Begin now."

"To be sure, sir, to be sure," Grizzle-head answered.

He complied by instructing the group of harbor side toughs in the various elements of their employer's requirements. Concealment was the most important part of their work; and they would conceal their handiwork and themselves from any and all prying eyes. Beyond that they would never speak of this employment, or of their apparently vastly wealthy employer, whose true name and motives they had no knowledge of and no care to know.

Their work boss, the oldest, greyest of the gang had been approached by a deaf-mute black child, who turned over a printed page indicating his various local arrests, indictments and prison terms, thereby coercing his assistance. Financial inducements followed; but the old wharf rat knew he had no choice if he did not fancy returning to a jail cell.

His instructions were to refer to his new employer as Denis-Andre Honore Severin Duverny if he referred to him at all. That gentleman needed a certain property destroyed; but in such a way that no fault could be found, and no blame could be fixed. 'Duverny's' concerns were all, he said, about the destruction of records kept there, and the decline of the property's tax assessment. He did not believe in the modern idea of assuming a loss on any part of his estate. He did not see why the local government should benefit in the least by his disposing of an old warehouse of little or no use to anyone.

His newest employees therefore would see to the warehouse's destruction by fire. They would make certain this cataclysm seemed entirely accidental, even natural. They would also ensure per 'Duverny's' wishes that no 'old tramps' or other 'useless persons' who might illegally inhabit the place would survive to reveal the truth of the matter. These arsonists for hire would then disappear from Baltimore, from Maryland and optimally, Duverny suggested from the eastern seaboard.

It was not in these thugs self interest to know or care who would perish in the disaster. It was no concern of theirs that the complex of buildings to

be targeted had a population of three hundred forty-seven inmates, forty-three guards officially designated as ward clerks, ten assistant administrators, and twenty-six laborers designated as orderlies.

"You're fully aware then, of the arrangements regarding your recompense for this endeavor." Beauvais asked.

"Indeed, indeed, yes, sir," the spokesman answered.

"And its grateful me and the lads here are for a bit of work in these harsh times. We'll be taking leave of this old city here and on our way to..."

"It is wholly unnecessary that one knows where you intend on going," Beauvais said. None of these men knew who he was or why he wanted their 'task' done. It was not in their interest, as his agents had made plain to know anything about their employer except the color of his money. Beauvais only agreed to this final interview so that should any of these lads succumb to avarice or morals after their work was done, he would know whom he must either permanently dispose of or utterly disavow.

"No more than any other details on which one has given instructions need be exchanged at this point. Gentlemen," Beauvais went on, grimacing at the idea of using that word about these thugs and hoodlums. Then he handed Grizzle-head a set of six pipes, flints, matches and a bag of imported Turkish blend tobacco including latakia and other less commonplace compounds.

"Here is the main weapon in your arsenal. You may consider that, as of forty-eight hours from now, the word is given."

"Forty... forty-eight hours, you say, sir? We're to wait that long to set the place burning?" the tallest, burliest thug in the group blurted out. Beauvais frowned at this thick-necked, broad shouldered redhead and allowed himself a long moment doing so, to intimidate the idiot thoroughly.

"To put it more simply, in two days time, and not a moment before," the Georgian finally answered. "You understand that, don't you?"

"He understands, sir," Grizzle-head answered, punching the redhead in the arm. "Two days, yes, sir, that's well understood, sir."

WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

SCENE FIFTEEN

BALTIMORE COUNTY ASYLUM

SECOND FLOOR WARD-INFIRMARY

NEXT DAY

"What time today are we expecting the Colonel, or Mac or both to show up?" Artemus Gordon asked Jacques D'eglisier. "Did they send anything further about talking the President out of visiting Jim at this marvelous establishment?"

"Thomas wired this morning, that he will be staying in Washington for another fortnight or so. Colonel Richmond is already on his way here as of yesterday evening. Both of them, along with Jeremy and Ned have been working to persuade M'sieur l' President he should not make the journey." Jacques said, looking up from the letter he was reading again. Then he folded the dog-eared sheet of paper into its envelope and slid it back into his vest pocket, with a quick smile.

"Is that a letter from Jeanny March?" Artie asked, grinning.

"Is she back home from Savannah?"

"I think you are confused, mon ami," Jacques said, ignoring the laughter in his friend's voice. "Jeanne writes here that she will visit friends in Savannah this month, before the fall weather makes traveling unpleasant."

"That doesn't explain the package that arrived yesterday, with Jeanny's name on it." Artie answered. "It was all done up in brown wrapping with strings to keep it closed up. Didn't you see it, Jacques? One of the day workers carried it up here. He said it came with a note, saying it was first delivered over to the Carroll House by mistake, because its something Jeanny sent Torry, from Savannah."

"Who brought this package from the hotel?" Miguel de Cervantes asked, looking up from a letter he'd only received today from Antoinette.

"A young black boy," Artemus said. "A deaf-mute, well dressed and thin as a rail. That's what the day worker, a fellow named Theo, said. That doesn't make much sense either, does it? Why would someone dress the boy well and not feed him decently?"

"I should not let myself be distracted this morning with another discussion on the mal-treatment of children," Miguel said. "So I will merely note that the ways in which children are abused in our civilized, sophisticated modern times is a profound disgrace and a horror. They remain as much chattel as any of the slaves held before the late War. Where is this strangely provenanced package? Has the child seen it?"

All three men glanced across the room to where the child was dozing over a pile of wooden soldiers Thomas Macquillan whittled for him. It was mid morning when Torry often napped, after a breakfast of apples with cinnamon and sugar, or tinned peaches and a sip of Artemus' coffee, which conversely seemed to make the little boy sleepy.

"He made away with the wrapping paper as soon as I could take it off the box, mon ami," Jacques answered, standing and walking towards the second floor ward. "As with any other pieces and scraps of paper he can find, Torry began at once to draw some of his soldier-pictures on it. Let me see if I can find that particular objet d'arte; so we can look at the address given."

"Wait a second, Jacques," Artie said as a group of younger agents entered the infirmary. This was another sign that things were changing radically here this fall. None of the guards interfered or seemed to care if Torry's friends occupied most of the second floor of the asylum. None of the clerks protested the ongoing snowstorm of legal briefs aimed at challenging their authority to imprison James West or any other inmates. None of the administrators had been sighted at the asylum for weeks.

"Chris, what have you found out about the day workers?" Artemus asked one of the younger men.

"Mostly we found out that something's up around here," Chris McIntyre, the young agent addressed answered. He was a protégé of Macquillan's from Boston, a strawberry blond with ruddy, strong features and a sturdy frame.

"And it's probably something bad, as far as we've been able to learn. The men who have been working here off and on for years were all told off. They're told that there won't be any day labor jobs here this fall or winter.

"They've also been running into trouble when they did get day work here, because they've had new bosses every week for months now, and some of those bosses have had new bosses. On top of that there are rumors going around that some of those former bosses are still here; but they've been locked up for crazy."

"Not that some of those worthless types don't deserve it," Artie shrugged, "it sounds like poetic justice to me, in fact. Is there any confirmation of these stories or are these men just grousing because they're losing the work?"

"Not yet," Ori Hoynes answered, walking in to join his partner and his mentor. "I sent Terry, Charlie and Miller to the hiring halls further up the harbor, and Whit, Tim and Shipp to ask around the less formal places where these men get hired." Lanky, blue eyed, blackhaired Hoynes was as he put it from Dublin by way of Galveston Island these days. He was as different from blond, square shouldered, hazel eyed McIntyre as two men could be, and as good a partner for the Bostonian as Jim West was for Artemus Gordon.

"That doesn't make sense, does it, Christopher? Does it Sean Oriel?" Miguel asked, looking up again from his latest letter from Micah Diego. "The rains have already begun and that makes more work here, not less all through the autumn and winter."

"No, Miguel, it doesn't make a tad bit of sense," Dr. Jemison Singer answered, entering the room with his protégé and medical student Rand Devereux, both of them cousins of Jim's from Raleigh. "Before I go into that further, did Ani and Micah enjoy the dulcimer we delivered last month?"

"They were delighted with it, Jemison, thank you," Miguel smiled. "Antoinette loves finding and playing different instruments and was fascinated when you told her about the zithers and dulcimers you've heard played in the Blue Ridge and further west. I only wish ... "

"As we all do, mon ami," Jacques interjected, looking over at the small doctor. "That we may get you home to Antoinette and your son before you need spend another winter in this wretched place. It will do you and Torry great harm, if the fever season begins and finds you both here. Now, Jemison, what were you going to say about this newest of illogical situations?"

The wiry, sandy haired doctor from Raleigh turned towards his colleague, frowned, and sat down on one of the empty cots in the ward. "I talked to the city officials who have been attempting to deal with the owners of this compound, even before Torry was dumped off here like a sack of spoiled rice.

"The fact is, despite owning the buildings, they owe several years' property taxes to the city; and Baltimore officials are finally taking action on that front, now that they've noted the pinch in their municipal pocket. This place will go to public auction to collect those taxes before years' end.

"The officials thought making noise about doing just that would excite the owners to pay up or sell out, so did Mac, and the Colonel, and the Director. So far, however, there's been no move from the owners, except for word circulating in the business exchange uptown that the Maryland House is being sold this winter. As you know, the same men are on the record as investors or owners of both establishments."

"So trying to put the pinch on the owner's pocketbook hasn't worked, yet." Artemus noted. "What else did the city officials have to say, if anything, Jemmy?"

"They've been doing the same search for the genuine identities of these owners that we have, Artemus," Jemmy said.

"And they've found some answers that confirm what Torry's aunt Beatrice, Beatrice Torrance told you a few weeks back. Rainier Duverny, Achile Ternier, and Prosper Derosin are her father's cousins, who may or may not still be alive in Haiti. So far, we haven't found any of those three old gentlemen or any of their families in Haiti. Gaultier Brunard, Josue Rochelin and Julien Corentin, on the other hand are among the aliases her brother has used over the past forty years and more.

"Also, although it hasn't been the case for more than thirty some years, at one time Jaimey Torrance and Beatrice' brother were good friends. They met at William and Mary when Jaimey was reading the Law and her brother spent a year on a special allotment or scholarship there because he wasn't yet seventeen years old."

"What is her brother's name?" Artie asked. "I don't recall Jim ever mentioning that Beatrice has a brother."

"That's odd," Miguel said, frowning. "I haven't heard Mr. West, or Torry talking about this uncle by marriage, either."

"You wouldn't, not either one of you, in fact, not any of you," a clear, young man's voice from across the room answered. "Not Mac, not Dad while he was still here, not the Old Soldier, not anyone has heard us talk about this, ever. We can't. We can't, ever. That's why, before you ask."

Artemus, Jacques, Miguel and the other agents turned as one to see the man they recognized as Jim West turn away from the box of tin soldiers Torry had been playing with all morning to shake his head at them. Over the past month, Artie and the two doctors had met thirty or more of these personages, who called themselves Jim's brothers. The rest of the agents had not seen the phenomenon by which someone who was in ways they couldn't explain Jim West and not Jim West sat up and talked to them.

Jemison Singer, Jim's first cousin from Raleigh who bore a familial resemblance to the agent was the first to react.

"Torry?" he asked, using the family's name for his cousin.

"Nope, nope, DocJem, Oldest is the one you mean by that and he's in bivouac, he's sound asleep for once. Vs don't have the watch until... never mind that for now. I'm called Aide or aide de camp, cause that's what I've taken care of most of the time," The speaker answered, standing up off the cot and walking directly over to the group of agents and doctors. Smiling tiredly, he held out his right hand to Jemmy, which gesture shocked Singer and his companions speechless, because this personage or brother was looking straight at him.

"You, you can see me?" Jemmy managed to push out of a suddenly dry throat.

"We ... W Company wasn't on watch that damn all afternoon on that damn all day, DocJem; so we weren't blinded. That happened to all of the Vs, a few less of the Ds and what's worst of all, all of the Ls. That's because we... us Ws, I mean really fell down on the job. W Company didn't get burnt or bunged up that day at all... !

"Ds had their hands full, so it's not as if anyone blames them. Cour was breaking in pieces ... probably the Old Soldier told you that, by this time. Oldest pushed his way through... at the end or it could've been a damn sight worse. Only Oldest was supposed to be in bivouac, the way he is now; and he just plain wouldn't stay put!

"You see it's supposed to work that we're never on watch all at the same time. Only maybe we should've been, that day. Maybe we should have knocked down all the Supposed-To's that the Ls ever got set up to begin with! It always worked the other way around, until then, you see, until that day. It always has worked the other way around!" Aide shook his head and looked ready to start another round of cussing when his affect of being a boy about eleven or twelve vanished and a slightly older one took its place.

"Blabber mouth is what our L should have called him!" This personage, who was clearly blind and clearly annoyed, said frowning. "You're Oldest' cousin Jemison. I'm Courier. Honestly, some of this, we would have thought wouldn't be news to you at all by this time. Haven't you known Oldest longer than anyone else in this whole rotten place, longer than almost anyone else at all, ever?"

"Since we were small children, visiting back and forth between Norfolk and Wilmington, Raleigh and Frederick," Jemmy nodded. "Torry's momma was my mother's sister, but I have to guess you know that."

"Keep your voice down, damn all! Haven't you got any damn sense whatever? Hasn't anyone here explained things to you by this time?" this newcomer exclaimed, turning away from Jemmy for a moment.

"Doctor Miguel, can you set this damn all fool from Raleigh to rights, please? He's a Quaker, like his momma, Oldest's aunt Toireasa; and maybe that's why he hasn't ever understood all this! He can't understand that we have had to fight things out from the damn all beginning. Only before you set him straight, Doctor Miguel, can you just tell us why you haven't done that already?"

Miguel shrugged and turned from the speaker to look at Jemmy and the other agents, all of who were getting their first glimpse of the Brothers.

"My apologies," Miguel said. "You're getting the same introduction to these young men as Artemus, Jacques and I have had over the past few weeks. As for understanding, much less explaining their existence; there are elements I cannot claim to understand and issues, as one of these young men just pointed out, which sternly defy explanation."

"Will it help Torry if we understand what little we might, Miguel?" Jemmy asked his bright hazel eyes wide with worry and confusion.

"We're not so sure about that, anymore!" the personage calling himself Courier shouted.

"Yes, I believe so," Miguel answered, shaking his head at the young speaker. "Is another internal argument going on, Courier; or can you address the matter for us now?"

Frowning, Courier crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the nearest cot as if it were a stone wall and he had a slow night on guard duty.

"D Company has the Watch now, and its pretty quiet today. So, I can give you a few items to chew on, anyhow. All y'all may want to sit down for this, if you didn't already. Some of you may not want to hear about it at all, in fact. If that's so, sing out, and take yourselves on out of here, now."

"We're here for the duration, thanks," black haired, dark eyed, half-Cherokee Rand Devereux said. "We signed on for the whole shooting match, as you might say."

"We have too," Chris McIntyre agreed. "That's something you should know about us by this time, in fact. That's something you should know. You should, because I'm sure Jim knows that all of us here and the fellows that are out right now chasing down the bad guys and chasing down more leads are not going to be walking out on him now or ever anymore than he would ever walk out on us. That list needs to be amended, in fact to add the rest of our agents in the Service, the analysts, the researchers, the clerks, the students in our Academy, the Department heads like Colonel Richmond, the Director and the President. "

"Well said, Mr. Chris," Artie said, beginning to applaud the younger man. 'Bravo, sir, very well said,"

"Thanks, Mr. A," McIntyre smiled. "Oh and there's one more thing I think you ought to know before you get all het up again,"

"What's that, Boston?" Courier asked. "Are you bringing the Sons of Liberty down here for a new Tea Party in the Inner Harbor?"

"No, no," Chris laughed. "Although it has occurred to me once or twice that it wouldn't be such a bad idea to dump a few tons of tea or coffee, or something equally expensive on the city officials down here. Being from Boston, I just naturally think in those terms, I guess. What I wanted you to know is that the 'Old Soldier' as you call him will be up here to see Jim sometime in the next few days. He just won't wait any longer and that's that. That being the case, you might want to think about sweeping the room out, or combing your hair or ... you know, spiffing..."

"Are you all of you out of your so called minds?" Courier shouted, standing away from the cot, and turning his head from one part of the room to another. "Have you all gone crazier than Oldest or Cour, or any of us ever have been? Have you all gone as mad as the Austrian was or sad Liesly, or little Cecily who thought he was in love with her could possibly, possibly ever, ever have been?

"Have the Director and the Colonel, and the Secretary of the Treasury and the whole blamed War Department all gone mad as March hares? Has the whole, entire Committee that oversees the Service gone insane? Has the Old Soldier decided he's lived long enough when he hasn't even finished his second term yet?'

"Don't you understand what happened that day at the damn all Maryland House? Don't you understand, PlayActor what could have happened a dozen times while you and Cour were waiting at Carroll House for the Old Soldier to get into town?

Don't any of you know what can still happen here, or in a hotel or on the train or anywhere else that you get Oldest and Cour, the rest of D and V Companies, blind as a pile of rocks as we are in the same place with the Man?"

Artemus glanced at Miguel for an instant and shook his head. They'd had a conversation like this one weeks ago and he'd been wrong at the time. That meant Courier was just as wrong now.

"Calm down a minute, will you?" the agent said.

" I happen to believe that since the President didn't have a hair singed on his head that day at the Maryland House it's not likely to happen here, or anywhere else. Wasn't everything supposedly set that day for Jim, or for Courier to shoot the Man to death? Wasn't Jim supposed to kill himself after that, or run out the front of the hotel and ... and get shot ... by me? That's not what happened and you know that much as well as we do.

"Just think about that for a moment. Six months of torment such as I had only a sample of went into forcing Jim West, or Courier to kill the man he respects more than anyone in the world. Six months of isolation, drugs, mesmerism, lies and torture went into supposedly inducing Jim to do something he would never and will never be capable of doing at all. I only got a taste of all that and I was certain I might ... kill Jim when I saw him again. I haven't. I won't. I couldn't possibly do any such thing.

"Also, as far as the two weeks I spent dealing with Courier before the President came to Baltimore two years ago and a little more, I've never believed and I never will believe I could have been killed. I say that because Courier and I are the only ones who know how badly I provoked him, while trying to understand the problem during that time. Maybe he lost his temper once or twice, sure. He never picked up a revolver or any other weapon; and he never lifted his hand to me. So, what you're all worked up about now... Courier it just isn't possible at all. I know that. Courier knows, Jim knows and the President knows that too."

"Yes, yes he does," James Richmond, agreed, walking into the room. "Unfortunately, with the Congress not in sessions just now, the President is busier than ever, instead of having time for this trip. I'm the Colonel you were mentioning a few minutes ago, young man and as far as my wife and my other superiors tell me, I'm still in my right mind. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, gentlemen."

"Bad news? I haven't heard any news as good as that in a damnably long time," Courier said shaking his head as if still unable to understand these people and vanished. In his place another personage, his affect similar to Couriers' but with a more somber expression and a squint not unlike Jim's when the agent had a severe headache.

"I thought the Ls said we were the ones confusing you fellows here," this newcomer said. "If that's so, you're confusing us right back. I'm Courier, by the way, of D Company. Now, before you waste too much time asking about it, I was coming on duty in the midst of things that day, when most of D Company got bollixed up six ways from Sunday. You could say the Old Soldier threw us for a loop. So, my eyes aren't as bunged up as Oldest's and most of the Vs, or about half us Ds, or almost all the Ls. So, where were we? Oh, hullo Colonel, that's solid now, about the Old Soldier not coming here, right?"

" That's solid," James Richmond agreed. "It took a lot of talking like Dutch uncles by Mac, Frank, and me, but the visit is off. The President remembers very well how ...overcome Jim seemed to be when they met that day. He doesn't want to do anything that will risk his recovery now. He would like to know more about how that recovery is going. He would like to be told what he can do to help, short of closing down the Maryland Legislature, since this isn't wartime."

"When isn't it wartime?" Courier muttered. "Never mind, what the Old Soldier needs to know is that Oldest charged in that day and stopped the whole shooting match cold. Oldest, who never should have been able to do that at all, stopped it. Also he might be interested in hearing that D Company, including Courier, was pretty well duped, going in there. That Austrian, and those two redheads and ... others worked like hell to fool us. We never started out to get anyone dead, far from it. Our orders..."

"Orders?" Artie repeated. "You fellows seem to use a lot of military terms, are you ... are you supposed to be some kind of army?"

"Yes and no," Courier answered with a flashing grin that was gone almost as soon as it emerged. " It might could be Doctor Miguel has been reading up enough now to have something like those answers. It might could be we'll have to makeshift to help the Ls tell you about it. "On the other hand, we're not sure we can tell anyone about the whole shebang ever. It could be just that tricky. We already know its chock full of unexploded shells and buried torpedoes and all sorts of traps that got set in place a long while ago."

"By person or persons you're not able to name?" Miguel asked.

"Yep," Courier nodded, his whole frame tensing at the idea. "Can't do that. It's locked up, bolted down, and buried behind a mine bigger than the one they blew up at the Crater. There'd just plain be nothing left, should that get touched off. Worse than that, all sorts of folks who have nothing to do with it, just nothing at all, could get caught in the blast."

"So all of you are defending ... those people?" Artie asked. "All of you, Jim included are ... protecting people who don't even know you're ...umm... here? Or is Jim one of the folks who you're protecting?"

"No and yes," Courier replied.

"Let me put it this way to you, Temus; you had some extra help forgetting what the Austrian did and told you to do, hypnosis and some drugs and so forth. Only the Austrian already knew or guessed that your own mind would put up part of that cover, part of that wall, to keep you from ... running around crazy.

"Since you're the only other person we know who spent time with the Austrian and those girls and... some other people, you actually do understand what we're talking about here. You probably won't ever remember every bit of that time; and that's by a combination of what Aynsley did and what your mind did, in self-defense. So it isn't all a negative, you see that, don't you? You came out lucky."

"Lucky is not the way I'd put it exactly," Artie said grimacing. "I take your meaning though, thanks. Maybe we should take another tact now. Maybe we should be asking..."

"What we can tell you?" Courier asked. "Still pretty tricky going there, lots of potholes and traps in the road. We're supposed to keep out of those these days, or the whole thing falls apart."

"I thought the whole world would fall apart when I began to remember Aynsley's lab and what went on there," Artemus said. "It didn't. So, help us out here, Courier. Tell us whatever you can and let us take on some of the protecting. Let us help. What are we all doing here if we don't even try to work this out now?"

"Hold on a danged minute, will you?" Courier growled.

"This isn't something D Company can decide on its own, if you haven't even understood that much! We're Third Company of the Four, can you get that much? Third, not First! Just hold on!"

Now Courier shut his eyes and turned his face towards the wall to his left. It seemed as if he needed to turn away from the group of agents and doctors for a moment or two. Exchanging glances those doctors and agents waited with varying degrees of patience until the man standing beside the cot turned in their direction again.

"First of all, we can't take a lot of time to explain things as far as we can, not right now. You were right, Mr. Chris, there's trouble coming and we have to be on the lookout for it. Skirmishers are already headed out from the ... the... others and our advance men have taken the point. Things are getting ready to shake out here. You fellows better put your haversacks on, and make sure you've got enough cooked rations and un-holed socks for a long march and a longer campaign. Do all that on the double-quick, too.

"Second of all, don't bother asking who's sending the trouble this time. That falls under the same heading as what we couldn't talk about before. Well, now it seems the Austrian's dead, right?

Well, he had help. That's all we can say about that.

"Last thing for now here's the quick and dirty way the Four works: which we also call the Watch for reasons that honestly should be clear to you by now:

First Company are the Ls, the Torrys. L stands for Little, like Torry Little, which is what Granma Rae called us a long time ago. They've been here from the beginning, and I mean almost the absolute, absolute beginning. They set up the whole shebang. That's why they're First Company. That's why they name us. That's why they keep the rest of us in line. We'd have folded at the first rough patch without them. They know all there is to know about the Companies, too.

"Second Company is W, they started out when L Company needed reserves to come in. That was pretty much right before we started going to school, and especially to different prep schools for West Point. That was when the fire happened at Granma Rae's house. We were six, then. One of our brothers, Cameron and Grandpa Jaimey died then... Momma died then, too."

"Third Company are the Ds, that's us, that's Couriers, and such things as that. We started out when the Ws needed us, when they called us up to turn the ... the...others' flank and then drive them off the field any way we could find. We're the ones who will use tricks, traps, and swindles, whatever will work to keep the Four safe and the Watch whole. We had a lot to do, from early days all through the War, as you might guess.

"Fourth and Last Company is V, which also sounds backwards to you, we figure. Here's the thing: Oldest grew up. He got through the War. Vs knew then they had to shoulder the load and keep us moving or we'd all be trapped again. V Company ... screens the rest of us now, like a cavalry regiment screens the rest of the army. Before Vs came into the line Ds and Ws had that screening detail. Before Ws, well, you can understand, it was just Ls..."

"The Ls, the First Company," Miguel and Artemus started to say together and wearily smiled at each other.

"Go on, Doctor, please, my head is trying to whirl off my shoulders right now, " Artie said.

". Courier," Miguel said, "what I wanted to ask you about is something you brought up a few moments ago. You said that when you ... and Torry were just six years of age when fire destroyed your grandmother's home. Also, if I am not mistaken, you noted as I have myself that two of Torry's siblings, the youngest of his family at that time, an infant girl name Emma and a toddler named Cameron died in that fire, along with his mother Jessamyn Eleanora West, and his grandfather Torrance. Is that correct?"

'You've got it right so far," Courier warily replied.

"Fine, now two other points of information if you please..."

"What if we don't?" Courier asked, jutting his chin and pulling his shoulders back.

"It's my understanding that we're presently discussing things you need us to know," Miguel said, biting back a frown. Then the doctor's wide grey eyes widened to the size of demitasse cups and he struck his right fist into the palm of his left hand.

" Courier, many thanks, many thanks indeed, Sir! You've given us an answer that should have been snapping up to bite us on the nose all this time!"

"I ... no, nope, can't see how that would be, DocMiguel," Courier muttered. " You don't seem to understand there are still a few thousand things we can't tell you."

"In fact, I understand that better than I did a moment ago, General," Miguel insisted. "It makes perfect sense, in fact. You said the first of your brothers came to be at almost the absolute, absolute beginning. You added that the second grouping or Company came to exist around the time of the horrific house fire that destroyed your home, and took the precious lives of your small brother Cameron, your grandfather James Torrance and your moth..."

Now Courier shook his head and for the first time looked more scared than skeptical or angry. Vividly his mouth worked and his breathing grew rapid, as if he was about to deliver another tirade. Instead, he leaned hard against the cot to his right and slid bonelessly onto it. To all appearances, he was simply James West again; but now he was unconscious.

WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

SCENE SIXTEEN

BALTIMORE COUNTY ASYLUM

INFIRMARY- SECOND FLOOR WARD

Miguel harrumphed and so did Richmond. Jacques looked at Jemmy and so did Rand eyes wide, full of confusion. Ori and Chris turned to Artemus who lifted both hands in a gesture they'd all seen more often from Jim West.

"This can't be good," Artie finally said, after looking more closely at their friend. "He's been through the mill all over again today, I know that. Still, for Jim or anyone to just loose consciousness that way..."

"Can't be good," Miguel agreed. "Jacques will you sit with Torry for a few moments while we discuss my major concern?"

"Bien sur," Jacques answered and sat on the cot next to Jim's.

""What is your major concern, Doctor?" James Richmond asked. He still didn't know what to make of the small doctor's presence here. He knew they'd had no hope for Jim until Loveless came to help.

"Colonel, just now we were once more presented with the core problem of what Torry and his brothers as I've come to think of them cannot tell us. Not only that; but the problem arose as before in the midst of discussing his early childhood, his father, his mother and the most traumatic episode we know of from those times.

"At the same time we were given yet another implication regarding the depths of cruelty Aynsley and his co-conspirators delved while imprisoning Mr. West and, as I believe Mr. Gordon as well. Their focus seems to have been on the childhood griefs and troubles of our two friends. That being the case, we need Mr. Gordon to tell us what Torry cannot."

Artie had begun pacing the length and width of the room, muttering and frowning. Now he turned to stare at Miguel.

"Me?" the agent asked. "You want me to tell you things that ... they cannot? How exactly does that work?"

"You and Torry are the only known survivors of Aynsley's heinous endeavors," Miguel answered.

"That is exactly how this works, if it works at all. By answering a handful of questions, you can give us a far more complete understanding of what was done to each of you."

Artemus shuddered, as he did any time the subject of Stefan Aynsley came up. "I must have told you everything I know, everything I remember about that piece of hell and the devils there by now." the agent said. "What else could you need to know?"

"Artemus," the doctor said, surprising everyone including himself by using the agent's given name.

"What everyone here knows about you is that you'd run into hell for Mr. West's sake; that in fact you've done just that many times. What Torry needs us to find out, he's utterly barred from revealing. So, in a very real sense, he needs you to run back into hell for him."

Artie closed his eyes and started to shake his head. The idea of pulling up more memories of Aynsley's laboratory and what happened there made him cold and sick through to his core.

"Run back into hell?" he finally said with a self-mocking tone. "Who would ever say no to such a fantastic notion? Jim wouldn't, I know that. We all know that. All right Miguel, you're on. Ask away."

Miguel gave a tired smile and nodded. "Did Aynsley make reference to your own childhood while you were his prisoner? Did he seem to have knowledge of your growing up in San Francisco? Or was he only cognizant of your years as a touring actor and a soldier?"

Closing his eyes again as if getting ready to go onstage, Artemus reached for the memories he needed now, like a man reaching through shards of glass to open a door.

"Aynsley had hardly any idea of what went on while I was growing up in the City," The agent finally said.

"It was as if he'd learned what he knew by talking to someone who didn't know me very well. He got some things completely wrong, in fact. He thought I went to school until I was fifteen or sixteen. I quit when I was nine! He thought my parents died when I was fairly young, nine or ten. They didn't. They were both alive when I first toured away from the City when I was seventeen.

"He thought ima Vered, my mother died first, of pneumonia after nursing my baby sisters and some neighbor's children. He had some badly mixed up notions about my father, too. At one point, he insisted that I was lying and my father died in Poland when I was very small. I told him that if he was talking about Reuven Sokolov, I had no idea what happened to that lousy excuse for a man or whether he was alive or dead. Reuven... may he grow like an onion..."

"Never mind that for now, your father, the man who raised you, Artemus, was he alive throughout your childhood?" Miguel asked.

"Papa Aurel was, yes, certainly. He taught me chemistry and pharmacology in his shop out in the Avenues. He was still alive when I began to work backstage in theatres in the City; so was ima. Papa Aurel never came to a play I worked on or in, but ima Vered often did. Still, he always gave ima money for the tickets, as if I'd let her pay. Papa Aurel... wait, wait a damned minute! Aynsley wanted me to believe that ima Vered died first and my father, Papa Aurel held me at fault for it. Can this help Jim at all, Doctor?" Artie asked.

"It already has," Miguel answered. "Either Aynsley was mistaken about your parents or he deliberately twisted the facts. He wanted you to accept his version of your boyhood, one even sadder and harsher than what actually happened.

"Then, with Torry, what do we find? Aynsley fed the child another tangled mass of distortions, lies, and frauds. In fact, it is a framework of lies very similar to those he tried on you. What has Torry been able to tell us so far? His father who in fact passed away more than ten years ago brought him to this wretched place. Even so, he is a thousand times more willing to talk about his father than his mother. Why would that be the case?"

Artie looked at Torry, who lay so still a second glance was needed to make sure he breathed.

Then the agent turned back to the doctor, wide eyed and frowning

"Aynsley told Jim the same miserable lie he tried to foist on me! Aynsley told me Aurel couldn't stand the sight of me because I was to blame for ima Vered dying. Only she died of pneumonia when I was seventeen, after nursing some neighbor's children!" Artemus said in a harsh whisper lest the child hear him.

"Aynsley had Jim in his rotten laboratory with his drugs and cages and all that ten times as long as me! He turned Torry's world upside down! Elly West died and her barely six-year-old son was at fault in some impossible fashion! Stephen West was bitter, accusatory, mournful, and disapproving. I know he did, I know it! You were right, Miguel! I know that's what Aynsley did to Jim because that's what he tried to do to me!"

"Mon ami," Jacques said, walking to Artemus' side to take his arm and move him towards another one of the cots. "Mon bon ami, procéder avec prudence, maintenant. James will not thank us if you are ill when he is well again."

"Caution? Proceed with caution, Jacques?" Artie asked. "In a minute or two I'll do that, maybe; but not right now. Stefan Aynsley painted a picture for me, a nightmare picture right after one of those sessions in utter isolation. That picture was of Papa Aurel, who adopted me before I was born, who loved me as his own, whom I cherished then and now despite any disagreements, we ever had, turning away from me. That picture was of Papa Aurel hating the sight of me because ima Vered had died. I'm pretty sure that picture grew to include my sisters; telling me, the twins died at the same time. Nothing like that happened in real life; but Aynsley wasn't interested in reality by then.

"Along with that came what was supposed to be Papa Aurel's dreams of a big family, of a his own birth sons, of his wife growing old with him, all shattered. In that nightmare, I was to blame. I was plunged back into the terror and remorse a child can't help feeling when a parent becomes terribly ill, when a parent comes close to death.

"That part was real; of course, children naturally blame themselves for the frightening times in their lives. I know I did. Aynsley's work was to build those emotions by a magnitude. That's exactly how, as Miguel just said, I know Aynsley did the same loathsome thing to Jim!" The agent swore a blue streak and sat down, shaken to his core again and furious.

"So, we've found the trigger point for the nightmare, that engulfed Torry's young life," Miguel said quietly, after glancing at Torry. " His grandfather and his youngest brother vanished from his world from one day to the next. Some of his cousins were undoubtedly injured or made ill at the same time; but worst of all, his mother was gone after a terrifying night of fire and chaos. Even without the appalling manipulations Aynsley put in place, that is a recipe for long-term remorse, which in a child's mind often transmogrifies into guilt.

"Bad enough Jessamyn West was gone forever from her son's life, that was the reality. Now Aynsley found a way to take a child's natural guilt ... just as you noted, Artemus and build a fantasy of terror on it."

James Richmond frowned as he listened to this conversation, and then walked over to gather this cobbled-together working team around him.

"I'm going to wire Washington. Thomas Macquillan knows more about that fire and the outcome than most of us, you being the exception to prove the rule, Jemison," he said.

"Umm, no sir. I was three years old and living in Wilmington with my grandmother Singer when the fire happened up in Norfolk," Jemmy said. "Mac is going to know a lot more than I do. Then of course my uncle Jaimey, and aunt Annie, Torry's momma knows about it, too. I'll train down there tomorrow. I'll send a wire tonight to ask what more they can tell us.

"It was an awful time of course, and not one the family's likely to forget. The fire started in an attic storeroom, they later found, not in the stables as was first thought. More than half the house burnt to the ground. The whole place had to be torn down before they could rebuild. Also, Grandmother Torrance insisted they build the house back up just as it had been. She said it was her home and Grandpa Jaimey's. It was still the home they built together; and she wanted him to feel that, even from up in Glory as she put it."

"All right. Rand, you'll go with Jemison to Norfolk, take Whit Lyman, Tim Daniels and Shipp Tobias with you, no one's going out solo on this case any more, and not just in pairs either, if I have anything to say about it; which I do." Richmond said now, directing the team as always.

"Ori, you and Chris stay here, and pull Jesse Godsey and Matt Coopersmith off the hide and seek duty they've been doing around the Inner Harbor. I want you four, Liam Worcester, Terry Hawks and Charlie Franks keeping watch right here. Call Danny Hoffner in, with Jeremy busy elsewhere we can use a spare MD on the job.

"One of the reasons Thomas and I used to persuade the President not to visit Jim now was that this part of Baltimore has never been that friendly as far as 'Yankees' are concerned. Another reason was the risk of making as Jim ill as he was that day two years ago, by meeting the Man again."

Taking their orders, Jemmy, and the younger members of the team dispersed. James Richmond stayed a while longer, watching as the man he knew as Jim West apparently slept on. The younger agent's bizarre actions two years ago and his subsequent illness worried Richmond as much as it did any of the team and more since he held himself responsible for his agents.

"Artemus, Jacques, I know I couldn't pry you out of here right now with a Parrott gun, so I won't try. Keep in touch. You've gotten that message system set up by now, right? The one you and the Doctor came up with?"

Artie almost smiled at that. "We've got a whole new flying harem set up on the roof, Colonel. Clarissa, Constance, Clementina, Delia, Dorcas, Elsie, Emmeline, Gwendoline, Isabel, Lucy, Lillian, Patience, Phoebe, Selina, and Winifred are ready and willing to get in the air. They've been doing practice flights all summer between here and Annapolis, then between Annapolis and Washington. We thought of making your house in Georgetown their last stop; but Joanna protested that idea for some reason I can't understand."

"Also, they have well insulated, well-kept and sheltered dovecots to come home to here, in Annapolis and at the White House." Miguel added as if that were the most important issue, because to him, it was. "Also, the 'ladies' have been quite well trained to keep away from hawks."

"You're asking the President of the United States to pick up messages from these pigeons?" Richmond asked, aghast.

"No, Colonel, by no means," Miguel answered. "The President asked us to set their Washington destination on the White House grounds, not too near the stables and not too far from the garden. That turned out to be a logistical challenge, but we found it possible after all."

Now Miguel turned to watch Artemus. The agent was on his feet again, pacing the length and width of the room, muttering while he absently peered into corners, looked at windowsills, and poked through shelves. When he reached the long table Torry had been using to play what he called 'tents' and sojers', Artemus stopped a moment and then began to search closely there.

The tents were pieces of foolscap or ragged blankets supported by the backs of cots or the ends of tables. The soldiers were buckets, mops, footstools and one imaginative child, as well as the wooden toys Thomas Macquillan made and tin soldiers Torry's friends began to send him. These colorfully painted toys represented armies from around the world, as well as regiments from the late War.

Frowning and shaking his head Artemus over-turned other sheets of paper Torry had been covering with sketches, most of them a five year old's idea of campaign maps. Arrows and circles, dots and triangles were in lines or clumps meant to be woods or roads, while wider lines curved like rivers, and squares filled with dots were placed in files like marching soldiers. Delving further, Artie began to pour buckets full of tin soldiers onto the table, until he came to closed metal box, with paintings of tin soldiers on all sides. Instead of opening this, the agent turned back to his colleagues and friends.

"I think I've found the contents of the package from Jeanny," Artie said, poking and prodding at the lid of the box, which seemed to be sealed shut. "Only why would she send Torry a box of toys he can't open?"

Artie asked, starting to rummage in his coat pockets. Finally, he pulled out a dog-eared envelope and held it up in the morning light. "I got a letter from her about that trip. She was also asking to come up and see Jim. I'd already told her that wouldn't be the best idea, considering the wretched condition this place is in."

"Mais, she did not take your advice seriously, mon ami?" Jacques asked with a smile, while he began to look again for the sheet of brown wrapping paper.

"She's as stubborn as her cousin; but you know that," Artie grinned. "She still wants to bring Jim's sisters, Rae, Meri, Meg and Bea, up here with her and just ... carry him out of the place on a stretcher. All of them worked in receiving hospitals during the War, so they feel confident about doing something of that kind."

"That would be something to see," Richmond noted. "I'm not sure anyone here, not even the fatherless sons who supposedly run this place could face down Jeanny March and the West sisters. Jacques, did you find that packing paper yet?"

"I have it," the Montrealer said, carrying a wide sheet of paper over to spread over one of the cots.

"Here you see where Torry started drawing ... much as with the other sketches, battle lines and arrows, marks which might be trees or streams. I don't know what is meant by these scribbled lines of numbers and letters..."

Artie and Richmond leaned over the sheet of paper with Jacques and Artemus nodded with a tired grin.

"It must be Torry's idea of a code for his dispatch riders and so forth. It's a very simple reverse alpha-numeric sort of arrangement; but not bad for a little boy who's just starting to write."

"Here on the reverse is an address and..." Jacques said, turning the sheet over. Then he brushed his hair back off his forehead and fixed his eyes on the writing he'd just revealed.

"Non, non, non! Sacre! Artemus, you are right. This is not the gift of James' cousin. This is not Jeanne's handwriting!"

Jacques fumbled for his vest pocket and drew out his letter from Jean March again. Setting this on the wrapping paper he pointed to the writing on both items. There were similarities in the small letters and good composition, making it seem a woman wrote both samples. Otherwise, there were differences in penmanship, the slant of some letters, underlining, and punctuation.

Artemus, who corresponded irregularly with Jim's cousin, pulled a letter of hers from his own coat pocket. With three pieces of handwriting, they had a much better sample for testing. James Richmond, who'd been hunting counterfeiters and other forgers longer than any of his colleagues, pulled out his portable examination kit and studied all three pieces of writing. After a few minutes, the Colonel nodded.

"The same person wrote both these letters," Richmond concluded. "The one Jacques received recently and the one Artemus has from a few months ago. That person did not write the address on this wrapping paper, however. Someone else, maybe a woman, and maybe a younger woman than Jeanny March wrote this, in a finishing-school style."

"Jeanne never went to any such school. She thinks them ridiculous," Jacques added. "She's resisted her former mother in law's every effort to have her daughter Timothea sent to one for several years."

"Timmy?" Artie asked, shaking his head. "That little hooligan would no more fit in a finishing school than I would! She's as fast a foot racer as her cousin Jim and climbs trees like a chimpanzee. She rides, sails and swims like a boy, all to the horror of her paternal grandmother. I think she's going to be a heartbreaker someday, just like her cousin, Jim.

"Now, I guess we should find out what came wrapped from whomever it was that forged Jeanny's name. I'm not sanguine about this, there's something wrong here and not just the forged address. For one thing," the agent said, studying the metal box more closely, it's been sealed shut. Why would anyone send Torry a box of toys he can't open?"

"It's not ticking is it, Artemus?" James Richmond asked, half serious. "Because if it were, I'd throw it out the nearest window."

"It's not ticking, Colonel. It's not leaking fumes or steam or any sort of liquid either," Artie answered, his brow creased, his eyes fixed on the box. Warily the agent tilted it one way and another, shaking the box with equal care.

"So I can't explain why I'd also vote in favor of chucking it out a window. It gives me an uneasy feeling. It makes me feel like I've been dusted all over with itching powder. It doesn't belong here, despite the pictures painted on it. Let's get rid of it,

I say."

No one disagreed. No one disputed the idea. Artemus was about to 'chuck' the metal box out the window that ran the width of the room on the northern wall when someone groaned.

"Is there an objection, gentlemen?" the agent asked, turning to glance at the others. "Speak now, as they say..."

No one spoke, but the groans grew louder, bringing everyone's attention to the cot Jim West lay on. As the colleagues watched, the blinded agent groaned, then fell silent again, and curled onto his right side. Artemus, Jacques, Miguel, and Richmond were all familiar enough with the way Jim commonly slept on his left. This was not the same.

In another moment, he resembled nothing quite as much as a figure on a war memorial. His legs were drawn up, his head on his knees, his face down, and his arms around the blankets he'd pulled together and held now as if they were the form of a dying comrade. This change in posture complete, the figure on the cot barely moved, except to wearily press his head, his legs and arms against a barrier only he detected.

"He's trapped," Artie whispered, half afraid he would rouse Jim into the midst of another nightmare.

"He's closed in. Not only that, Jim's trying to protect someone who's caught in there with him. I started to think he was ... remembering being shut in one of those horrendous isolation cages."

"Except that there would be no one else, there wouldn't even be room for one more person inside those things, from what you reported." Richmond said.

"They had barely enough room for one grown man, Colonel," Artemus agreed, then nodded, and walked over to his colleagues.

"That's it! That's it exactly. That has to be the answer. Jim's trying to protect one of his smaller brothers, either that or they're somehow locked in. somewhere."

Artie turned his dark gaze back to the tin box that had not come from Jim's cousin Jeanny. On a moment's impulse, the agent took a penknife out of his pocket kit and ran it gingerly between the lid and the box itself. Chips of what seemed hardened sealing wax fell away as he slid the knifepoint along each side. Then Artemus took a deep breath, as he would when about to go onstage, let it out and lifted the lid away.

"Great jumping balls of St. Elmo's Fire!" Artie exclaimed. "Would you look at this?"

Then he rushed across the room to set the box where Miguel could see into it as well as Jacques and James Richmond. Inside they saw a quartet of hand-carved wooden figures, each one six inches tall, each one in a military uniform. There the similarities ended abruptly. One of these wooden soldiers wore the grey and white of a West Point cadet. Second in this file was a figure in the field jacket or uniform blouse, single-striped trousers of a Union officer in the late War, complete with sword, sash, and slouch hat. Another figure wore the battle uniform of an American soldier in the Mexican War. The last figure wore the tunic, old style trousers, the vest and tricorne hat of a partisan from the Revolutionary War with a miniature flintlock pistol and rifle in his belt and strapped to his back.

"The Four," Miguel and Artemus said together.

"Sealed inside a metal box," Miguel added. "But when and by whom; surely not by Torry or any of his brothers."

"Not in their best interest, either." Artie said.

"Also, this box is old, as old as Jim, I'd guess; but the wax isn't. I think Jim carved these figures, though. He has stories about the Revolutionary War from both his grandmothers and his uncle Morgan who was a boy in Philadelphia then. His uncle Jaimey went to the War with Mexico, and of course this one's a cadet; but this first figure here..."

"Could not have been created at least twelve years ago," Richmond said. "That's not a pre-War Regular Army uniform, I happen to know. It's a pretty good representation of a field officer's gear during the War, though. Also, gentlemen, doesn't it appear to you that these soldiers are out of order, historically speaking?"

"They are!" Artemus exclaimed. "This partisan, the one that looks like one of Nathanael Greene's or Francis Marion's irregulars should be first in line, not last. The Union officer should be fourth, not second. The cadet should be third, and the Mexican War soldier second, wouldn't you say, Colonel? I wonder what happens if we set them in that order?"

"Why should anything happen at all if we do that?" Richmond asked, peering at Artemus as if the agent just suggested a walk on Baltimore's Inner Harbor.

"Because its not in the least likely that these wooden soldiers, encased as they were until this moment just happened to arrive here," Miguel answered before Artie could pull a somber expression over the grin the Colonel's peering gave him. "Because someone set them inside this metal prison in this erroneous order."

"Someone wanted us to ignore this box, thinking it was some toys from Jeanny March," Artemus added.

"Someone with the wrong information about Jeanny's travel plans this autumn, and the services of a rail thin, terrified little Negro boy. And it's someone these brothers know and can't talk about, unless I'm way off the tracks here."

"So, Doctor, what are you saying these figures tell us? Why were they sealed up and who sent them here in that way?" James Richmond asked.

"The same enemy Torry and his brothers have been barred from naming, Colonel," Miguel answered. " It would be a very telling, very powerful and secret way of enforcing his control; and control is what he craves more than anything in the world. This is from the man, if one can call him that, who likely triggered much of the pain and chaos in Torry's life so far. He has spent decades trying to control Torry according to his own perverse, and violent interests and his own broken spirit."

"His broken spirit?" Jacques echoed, "Miguel, mon ami, how can you describe such a monster in that way?"

"I can, Jacques because I've done enough reading in the journals Dr. Evans and Jemison and Jeremy have obtained to know that the capacity for doing damage of this sort to another human being arises from the same damage being done to the perpetrator. The divisions we've already seen in Torry were begun by someone whose own life was shattered in the same horrific way, by pressures more insane and more forceful than most people can imagine.

"Those sorts of pressures, when turned on a nation or nations erupt in wars, rebellions, revolutions, and bloodbaths that effect generations. When they attack an individual, that person has no defense we know of except to sink into madness, or to separate for the sake of survival. This is what we've found in Torry, although it may seem a kind of madness to us, it has been survival adaptive for him. What infuriates me is what seems to be an attempt to use that self-defense process as a weapon against the man we know as James West and all his brothers."

"As a weapon..." James Richmond repeated. "Well, I know I don't entirely understand that, Doctor; but you seem to. That being the case, there are a few questions I hope you can answer, not for me, for the President. He's gravely concerned about Jim, and has been since the day they met at the Maryland House.  
"Do you know what could have caused these apparent divisions within a man's living mind or spirit? Do you know how this can happen? Do you have any idea what we can do for Jim at this point? Lastly, and not at all most important to the President; do you still believe West's vision can be restored?"

"Do I know what can cause this sort of separation?" Miguel repeated, taking care to understand the Colonel's inquiry. "Yes, in fact; and it is something equally as shocking as the effects we've seen here. In the studies recently done in Europe this has been the result of one and only one triggering behavior.

That is, the brutal, ongoing physical, nervous and emotional assault on very young children by adults who either have or who compel authority over them against their will.

"These children respond by, as it were going into hiding. In self-defense, they begin to display a series of masks, if you take my meaning, to the world outside their traumatized existence. These masks evolve into complete disguises and from there into entirely separate entities. The child to whom this horror originally happens may disappear completely; in a sense, they die as a result. They are murdered is a better, truer way to put it.

"In Torry's case, although we still do not know the identity of his tormentor, the control that evil person set up years ago lives on into the present. Again, in self-defense, these separate entities have effectively blocked their conscious memories of that person. They are not protecting him. They are shielding themselves from the retribution he promised decades ago if they revealed him to the world.

"They are also, very likely as it has been seen in other cases, attempting to shield the people ... outside themselves for whom they have affection and concern. If they are asked about the abusive person, as we have seen more than once, the shields go up between one instant and the next. These shields not only block communication but conscious memory as well.

"The harm, the danger they have known in their own lives is far too great to risk for others. Under mesmerism, which I am not sanguine about using, some of these damaged children, now adults have reported further instances of coercion. By that I mean, active threats against their family and friends, their colleagues and so forth have been used to maintain their silence. If they retain the memory of their tormentor, they cannot share it, they dare not. And that is what we have heard today from these separate personages."

"What can I tell the President about any hope for Jim's recovery, as far as this ... self defense is concerned?" Richmond asked, wide-eyed and somber.

"Tell Mr. Grant that strange as it seems, a kind of recovery from the original horror is what we're seeing in these personages. Tell him that it may be Torry... and his alters, a term used in some of the journals I've studied, will grow past the need to protect the rest of us. They will begin to see us as capable of aiding them, and protecting ourselves as well.

"Their world was reduced, roughly three decades ago, I would hazard, to one of immensely powerful, incalculably cruel 'giants' and completely helpless infants. This is something I have my own understanding of, as you might guess. These

alters are much braver and stronger than those children, that first child could have ever been alone. "Otherwise there would be no James West as we know him. What I feel I should have understood before Thomas, Jacques and Francis ever came to Richmond for my help is that Torry... that is, Mr. West, has always been possessed of a mercurial nature, a certain volatility of spirit, and a marked capacity for expeditious adaptation to his circumstances whatever they might be. Yet, at the same time, on a moment's notice, Mr. West could display a dispassionate affect, a lack of expression, or a serene indifference to his circumstances. In other words, he could mask his reactions with no discernible effort on his part. All the signs were there. I only lacked the knowledge of his very earliest childhood, which I am gaining now."

"You knew enough of that childhood to call him Torry," Richmond noted.

"That, Colonel Richmond I learned in a discussion with Mr. West some five years ago. He was making a point, as I recall regarding my own familial diminutive. 'My grandmother Raicheal Torrance nicknamed me Torry, Doctor' he said. 'I guess that was pretty much the way you got the name Miguelito'.

"Without that fragment of information, I might not have been able to proceed with the child I found here at all. So you see, when he comes back to himself, that is when Mr. West is well enough to set these defenses aside more of the time, he will have himself to thank, not I."

"Well, I thank you, Doctor and so does the President," Richmond answered, bemused again by Miguel's apparent modesty. "We can talk more about what that gratitude means at a later time. I have to get back to the Carroll House to file my own report now."

"Did Mr. Grant wish to ask about the surgery I proposed doing on Torry's eyes?" Miguel suggested.

"Yes, yes, he does," Richmond agreed. "What are your thoughts at this point?"

"That I will not be able to perform the surgery I planned. The arthritis in my hands is rather the worse for the months I've spent in this place, in this climate even with the salves and other treatments Antoinette concocts for me." Miguel said bluntly, seeming to realize his bluntness only when Richmond and Artemus gasped and swore aloud.

WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

SCENE SEVENTEEN

BALTIMORE COUNTY ASYLUM

INFIRMARY- SECOND FLOOR WARD

"I don't believe this!" Artie grated, keeping his voice down for Torry's sake. "I don't believe you'd let this drag on for months, let us think you were here to help Jim all this time, only to go back to flying your true colors again!"

"Mes amis, attendez un instant, écoutez-moi, s' il vous plaît!" Jacques exclaimed, too worried to use his second language.

"Doctor," Richmond said when he'd contained his own temper and glared at Artemus by way of suggesting he do the same. "My apologies, one of the things I have in common with Jim is my first name, the other is a black Welsh temper. I think, I hope we misunderstood you just then. You previously indicated that you are the only physician in this part of the world, perhaps in the entire world that can perform that surgery. You've said that's the case in part because you invented the techniques involved and some of the instruments required.

"To be fair, you've also made it clear that no surgery of any sort comes with a guarantee of success; and that any surgery carries the risk of the patient's death. That being said, I'm at somewhat of a loss to understand..."

"Colonel Richmond, Mr. Gordon, my most earnest apologies," Miguel said, before Jacques could intervene. "I did not put that very well, nor did I explain myself fully. I have already begun to train Jacques, Jemison, young Rand Devereux, Jeremy, and I believe the other members of the team are another of Torry's cousins, Michael Spencer, along with your cousin from San Francisco, Eli Aarons, in the techniques required, with mock ups of the instruments involved. Their hands will do the work mine cannot and I believe with real hope of success, if and only if we can remove the patient from this horrendously foul place!

"There is no physician in the world who could safely, hygienically trim a fingernail on a man's hand in this environment. The mortality rate here is that of a charnel house, not an asylum! Therefore, whether it takes an army composed of Torry's female cousins and siblings, a detachment of cavalry duly armed and mounted, or raising Stephen West from his grave, we must relocate this child."

Artemus frowned and glanced at the Colonel before answering Miguel.

"I...apologize as well, Miguel." the agent finally said. "I let my Polish Hussar's temper loose before you could finish explaining. G-d knows I come by it honestly, some of my ancestors rode to the Battle of Vienna, two hundred years ago, give, or take a decade. Still, I apologize,"

"If you gentlemen will excuse me now, I have a report to send the President that he's been waiting on," James Richmond said. "And the Man doesn't like to wait. Good morning, Doctor, thank you again for your candor and your help in this case." The Colonel added and left the room.

"That was quite gracious of you, Artemus," Miguel answered when Richmond was gone. "Am I right in thinking you have something in mind as regards getting Torry away from this vile place?"

"Very reluctantly, yes," Artie nodded, and dropped his voice again to make sure only the other three heard him. "That is, I'm as eager as we all are to get Torry ... and Jim... all of them out of here. I'm extremely reluctant to do what you didn't exactly suggest a moment ago, Doctor in effect, that I bring Stephen West back from the dead."

Miguel kept a somber expression while he listened and then nodded. "Of course, I did not suggest that precisely. That being said, it seems to offer the best opportunity we have at present. You were against attempting this very thing a few weeks ago. Have you changed your mind?"

"In a sense, no, I haven't changed my mind," Artie answered. "They have, those ... fellows. I don't believe children should be hurt this way, ever. I don't believe anyone should be, in fact. Also, I know that even if Jim weren't 'much of a hand at the masquerade-work' as he puts it, he'd do the same thing for me in a heartbeat. He'd do whatever he could and try whatever else he could think of. He's my brother, in all but birth; and so you can look at this as me being selfish. I want my brother back; and I want him to live a long, eventful, if not absolutely chaotic life.

"I also know that Jim will not be happy with anyone impersonating his father. They did not always see eye to eye. Still, they became very close again, in those first two years of the War. The idea that Aynsley or anyone else used the estrangement between Stephen and James makes me furious because I know it was over before Stephen died.

So, I'm still a little wary of taking that role on; and I have to. Don't I? Which means we have get my sleeps-like-a-log-partner awake again, don't we?"

"That depends, Temus on what you want to wake Oldest up for," the man on the cot said, once more earning everyone's attention. "He's had a bit of a day, in case you couldn't tell."

Jacques exchanged glances with Miguel and both doctors kept quiet for now. Artemus walked back to face the speaker, studying his more relaxed mannerisms and pondering his lighter tone of voice.

"Youngster?" the agent finally asked. "I thought you had the Watch."

"That's been pretty well bollixed up since we've been stuck in this place," Youngster said. "We're just now getting things worked out again. D Company's on watch now. That's one thing Cour didn't take time to explain, or maybe he didn't figure he needed to. You fellows were all in the War, except for DocM, except we think that maybe he taught some docs in California who might have worked in the field hospitals then. So, you know how a rotation order works for pickets, skirmishers, and advance troops. Well with us, with the Four, L Company watches for V, and V Company watches for D. Then D Company watches for W, and W Company watches for L. So, W is on watch next, then L, then V, and then D all over again. "

"Then you're getting ready to take the next Watch and the other companies are... where, doing what exactly?" Artemus asked.

"They're in bivouac, that means ... they're not going to answer you right now. You could just say they're asleep, if you'd rather. I thought we told you about that. Maybe you haven't been asking enough of the right sort of questions. Maybe you want to try some of the old questions over now, too; but you might want to go back and do what you were about to do a couple of minutes ago, first.

"You were about to put those four soldiers in file the way they're supposed to be; only not back inside that blasted tin box! Set Colonel Marion, Paladin, Pelham, and Veteran in file just that way on the table. Also, you want to watch your fingers, that box has a false bottom and the edges have rusted. What you want to do is take some wax, or lamp oil and rub around the inside bottom there and then take your penknife or something like one of Jacques' scalpels to pry it open."

"Why?" Artie asked, as Miguel gave Jacques the oil lamp next to his cot to use as Youngster suggested. "Is there something we need to see hidden there?"

"You could say that," Youngster nodded. "We can't say much more about it, though. Now c'mon Temus, take the four out and set them up. We carved them all at the same time, about thirteen years ago, in the fall, when Oldest got his First Lieutenant bars. The Ls decided they wanted something to show, to show for the lot of us; and how we've always been soldiers, one way, or another."

Artie complied; lining up the four wooden soldiers on the bench next to Jim's cot and studied them.

"I think I remember Jim working on these," the former actor said. "He said his grandfather West and Mac Macquillan taught him how to whittle. They're very well made... Wait, that reminds me of something I wanted to ask you. Why are you named Youngster?"

"My L called me Youngster because that's what Mac calls us, when he's not calling us Jimmy. We much prefer Youngster and Mac knows that." Youngster answered. "Guess you know that, too."

Jacques set to work with a ragged piece of linen from one of the cots soaked in lamp oil. Then he performed surgery on the false bottom of the box with a folding scalpel from his own pocket kit. Under the sheet of tin Jacques pried up was a yellowed envelope covered with faded writing, and closed with a circle of crimson sealing wax.

Pressed into the wax was the imprint of an old fashioned seal, with a tower or castle rising behind a heavy wall, ringed by five words in French, repeated above and below the design: De Villefort: Fortune le veut.

"De Villefort: Fortune le veut," Jacques read, pulling the envelope out into the light of day. "Fortune so wills it. Mais, who is De Villefort?"

"A character in The Count of Monte Cristo," Miguel answered, without looking away from the battered, rusting tin box. "He sentences Dantes to prison for life. That hardly applies in this case, I suppose. Or does it?"

"We'd go with your second guess there, DocM," Youngster said. "Just don't ask us any pointed questions on that ...point, all right?"

"That's rather a frustrating stance for you to take, young sir," Miguel answered. "Still, I will do as you ask, for as long as I can. Jacques, why are you staring at the writing on that envelope? Open it, mon ami, let's see what's inside."

"Mon ami, I am looking at the handwriting on this envelope with a great deal of interest because it seems markedly similar to that on that packing paper." Jacques said. "Artemus, mon ami, come over and bring that sheet of brown paper, s'il vous plait."

In another moment, all three men were studying both samples of handwriting with interest. They were very much alike at even a quick glance, so Artie took out his own kit with a magnifying glass, a sheet of vellum, a ruler, and a jeweler's glass. After another few minutes, the black haired agent looked up and nodded. Then he broke the seal and examined the letter within.

"These three samples are as close to being identical as anyone's handwriting can be from one document to another. The same person wrote all three samples; and it may be the Colonel was wrong. It may be a man with an old style classical education wrote these. What's certain from the writing on this envelope is that whoever the writer is, he speaks French as his native language. On the envelope he wrote:

" 'Eyes Only: our protégé and champion James Kiernan Torrance West.' And in the letter, he goes on to say:

'Our Dearest Torry, Our Dearest Boy,

Your obedience to and compliance with our Will pleases us greatly. Should you continue as expected we will be much contented by your dutiful, attentive, thoroughly tactful and forever discrete service to us. Great things and heroic deeds await you. You will be known in due time as the Southron Achilles, making that ancient, demi-god warrior's Sacred Choice of Lasting Glory over Length of Days.

'You will denounce and condemn our Great Enemy and see him destroyed once and forever. You will stand before that errant coward whose name you bear and show him how a true champion accepts his fate by accepting your own. You will teach him at long last that the part of a man is to champion the Right, not to spoil the lives all around him with mean, low, despicably common passions.

'With every certainty that you will carry out your sworn duty to the realm of Our Great Lady South:

Herewith we dispense your due reward. You will be acknowledged as Our Heir, Our Southron Achilles, and Our First Companion at the appropriate time in the proper setting:

'To be opened on the occasion of our Acclamation as Rightful Royal Heir to the throne of and Regent for Her Beneficent, Omniscient, Unparalleled Majesty Helene Therese Beatrice De Villefort-Beauvais, Empress of the Western Hemisphere, also renowned throughout the world as Our Great Lady South.

'Let it be known throughout Our Hemisphere that our first obligations to Her Beneficent Majesty has been carried out and will be revealed to Her Loving People on this occasion. A monumental memorial palace, library, university, plantation, and gardens stands in Her honor and to Her Glory. It rests on seventy acres of her most beloved estate, Chateau de Villefort outside her cherished town of Athens.

'We have carried out our solemn vows, Your Beneficent Majesty. We have eradicated Our Great Enemy, the one who dared insult and defile our line with his low, mean, despicable, plebian advances to Our Sister, Your Cherished Step-Daughter Alexandrine Michaela Genevieve. We have built your shrine for all to see, know, and worship your Glory. We pray you are well pleased with our humble endeavors. Signed, this Sunday, the 17th day of September in the Year of Our Lord eighteen hundred and fifty-four,

His Serene Royal Highness Lucien I, of the Western Hemisphere, previously known as Lucien Jeremiel Corentin De Villefort Beauvais."

WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

SCENE EIGHTEEN

BALTIMORE COUNTY ASYLUM

INFIRMARY- SECOND FLOOR WARD

"Eighteen fifty-four?" Miguel repeated when Artemus stopped reading and took a sip of water from the flask Jacques gave him. "Torry was twelve that year. He ran away from home that summer, all the way to New Orleans."

"His Serene Royal Highness?" Jacques echoed. "Alix Torrance' half brother is l'monstre behind all this travail? We wondered how someone could know so much about Torry!"

"Not only that, he has or he had a very different plan from Aynsley's, or young Liesl Branoch's. He wanted Jaimey Torrance dead, not President Grant. Now, maybe he was just fine with the President dying at the hand of Jaimey Torrance' nephew, sounds as if he'd like that. So, Youngster, what can you tell us about this Lucien Beauvais?" Artie asked, turning back to the man on the cot.

"Nothing," Youngster answered, frowning, and refusing to look at the agent for a long moment.

" We don't remember knowing anyone by that name, ever; but there you go! You're starting to ask your damned, outlandish questions again. How do you not understand that we can't tell you things we don't know anything about? How many ways do we have to say it?"

"That's not what you said before, mon enfant," Jacques quietly noted. "You told us that you know who started all this misfortune; but that you cannot tell us his name or anything else about him. What we know is that you and your brothers are as honest as our friend James has always been. So, we believe you are prohibited from answering any such questions.

"That being the case, lets go back to questions you are able to answer for us. Did you, as Miguel suggests, run away from your home the summer you were twelve years old?"

"We're not going to talk about any of that, now or ever!" Youngster answered, his face flushed his eyes bright with anger and no little worry. "It was so long ago anyway it couldn't possibly matter! Why are you wasting time on things that nobody gives a flying fig about anymore? Why are you even talking about this when you should be finding a way to damn all get us out of here?"

"Why are you behaving as if you don't trust us?" Miguel asked. "It may be some of your brothers don't trust me, for which sentiment I acknowledge they have many and good reasons. Surely, on the other hand you have more than enough knowledge and understanding of Jacques and Artemus to believe they are here to help you. Surely, it is the members of D Company who take on the role of cynic amongst you, not W.

If I'm mistaken in that assessment, I certainly admit that the older of the two Companies has lived longer, and known more cause to be suspicious of grown folk, any grown folk. Except, by that algorithm, your first-born brothers should be the most wary of all, refusing the presence and the help of any adults whatsoever. I have not observed that to be the case with Torry Little, with Pocket or as I sometimes call him Bolsillo, with M'hundry, with Whisperin', Worreeed or Skeered. In fact they all seem to me to be astonishingly brave young fellows."

"How do you know their names at all?" Youngster demanded. "How do you know any of our names that we haven't told you? What sort of trick are you trying on us, DocM? The Ls trust you because you're not ... because I mean, because you don't..."

"Because I don't by any means whatsoever loom over them like the race of giants, whether they are cruel or loving, that all children everywhere must deal with." Miguel said. "You're not being truthful this once, Youngster, in saying the first born of your brothers only trust me because of my physical size.

They trust me because I have shown them only kindness and some of the few measures of care and compassion they had known in over a year.

"They trust Thomas Macquillan for the same reason. They likewise trust Artemus, Jacques, Colonel Richmond, Jeremy, Franklin, Ned, Sean Oriel, Jemison, Christopher, Randolph, and Bosley... well especially because he makes them laugh. They trust all the young men who have come here to help them. They do so because that's what we have done together, we've helped them step away from the terror they lived with, the nightmare all of you lived here, alone and abandoned to the monsters in charge."

Once again, Youngster looked down, away, across the room, anywhere but at the three men who were immovably, as the Colonel said, here to push back the terror and untangle the quagmire of their worst nightmares.

"Monsters is a fine word for them, all of them," the youthful brother finally said, without looking up from an intense study of his hands. "Fatherless sons doesn't take it nearly far enough, though; brutes, devils, inhuman, empty-hearted ... s-s-s-sadists... Now you've got us stammering, damn all! Enough is enough! Enough is enough! You've got to stop pressing this! You've got to!"

"Why?" Artie asked, thinking he'd only seen Jim, or more precisely Courier this worked up, short-fused and tied in knots during the weeks before their disastrous meeting with Ulysses Grant.

"Why do we have to stop pressing to learn more about these bastards? What's going to happen now, if we learn the whole megillah? Are these monsters on two legs going to hurt your brothers even more than they have already? Could they? Do you think that's even possible, Youngster?

"No, you're not worried about L Company, are you? You know they're the strongest of the lot of you, don't you? You know they've survived all these horrors, all these years, starting at a time when they were happy, tiny, utterly defenseless children, don't you? You know, you have to know that W Company is as brave as bears, cougars and wolves rolled up together, you had to be, to get past the time after Elly West died.

"Then there's D Company, with some of whom I'm more familiar than I ever guessed. They came through all the schooling, all the testing, starting West Point, all that because they were going to be a career Army officer no matter what it took. That didn't only take the sort of dogged determination we all recognize as a core element of our friend. It took the brains to study, and study, and study for, and pass the hardest battery of entrance tests ever written. It took the intelligence Jim West never mentions or lays claim to, that he couldn't have entered or graduated West Point without having."

"You're mixed up again, six ways from Sunday, Temus," Youngster insisted, frowning. "Oldest is V Company, not D; can't you understand something as simple as that?"

"Let's talk about V Company then," Artie agreed, biting back a thin smile that he felt sure would only aggravate Youngster more. "The V stands for what, exactly?"

"Veterans," Youngster frowned. "How hard is that to figure? L, Littles, W, Watchers, D, Defenders, and V, Veterans, which is a sort of a jibe, if you can understand it. We tried to tell you about this a few weeks ago, didn't we? First Company, Second Company, Third Company, Fourth Company... the Four, the Watch..."

"The Brothers," Artie suggested, "Torry's brothers. I'm starting to grasp the idea, yes. Now, about the question of getting you and your brothers out of here; do you have some idea of how we should do that? Do you understand that Torry ... your seemingly youngest brother, is terrified by the

very idea of leaving this place, no matter how horrendous it is?"

"That's what they were told, Temus. That's what they were told in the strongest possible terms at the worst possible time. So, that's what they believe. When you were five or six years old, didn't you believe everything your father told you? When you were the age we were when momma died, didn't you take whatever your father said as ..."

'Gospel?" Artie finished with a small grin. "Well, something like that, yes. Only I think there's a lot more and a lot worse to it than Torry accepting what ... his Poppa told him. I think you know that's the case, don't you, Youngster?"

"Can't talk about that," Youngster answered again.

"So stop pushing that point, will you? It won't help anything or anyone now! It can't do any good at all; can't you understand that? There's no good that can come of it!"

"Only harm?" Artie asked. "Only harm can come of talking about how Torry was abandoned here by someone who claimed to be..."

"Will you just shut it now, for the love of G-d!" Youngster exclaimed. "Do you want to send all the Ls and Vs, a lot of Ds and most of us Ws back into lock-up, the way we were when Mac and Jacques got here? Do you want us to climb back inside that old tin box, slam the lid down, and seal it? Do you want everyone outside the Companies, outside that box, every single person that we give a flying fig about, to be wrecked, to be shattered, to be ... gone to hell in a hand-basket?"

"No," Artie answered in a deliberately quieter, calmer tone. "Nothing of the kind. No one who knows Jim, and no one here wants anything like that to happen again, ever. We also don't want you and your brothers, or Miguel to die here this winter. Jacques, mon docteur ami, explain it to them, will you?"

"Bien sur," Jacques said, walking over to face Youngster. "C'est tres simple, mon enfant. Miguel cannot remain here and live through another winter. His last bout of fever nearly dispatched him, as I believe you already know. Then there's the question of your own physical health to consider, that is to say, for all intents and purposes, James' physical health, which has once more begun to deteriorate.

"Torry's nightmares have returned of late, which I first thought was a sign of movement towards remembering the truth. It seems not to be the case now. With these evil dreams, Torry barely sleeps, and when awake eats very little without coaxing. "He no longer plays with the toys Thomas makes for him. Except for the sheets of paper he still sometimes draws on, he shows little interest in games. Exhaustion, once more leading to a loss of appetite, once more leading to insomnia will dispatch the child, James, and all of you, mon jeune ami and sooner rather than later if we cannot resolve this seeming impasse."

Youngster seemed to turn pale for a moment and said nothing as he turned his eyes to study his boots, his trousers, and his legs. His shoulders slumped inwards and his hands shook until he clenched them together.

"Figured it was pretty bad, when the Ls started dreaming about the damn all fire at Grandmomma Rae's house again." he said, keeping his voice down, shrugging, and still not looking up. "You know that wasn't the absolute, absolute beginning by now, don't you? Well it wasn't; but it was bad enough. Granddad Jaimey, Cam Little and ... and...Momma all... gone, like that. Jeanny and Meg, Robby, Owen, and Emmy, Bree and most Ls and Ws... were sick for a long while after.

"Jaimey and Dad, uncle Morgan and our older cousins, Danny Morrissey and Jemison Singer, Jemmy's father, Lawrence Ashton and Rand's father Matthias Devereux, searched through the whole place to find out how it happened. At first, they thought the fire started in the stables, with some wet hay, the way it can. It didn't. The fire started in the attic, next to the workroom Granddad had up there. An old oil lamp shattered, they found out and the oil somehow caught fire up there, where no one thought to look for it."

Now Youngster looked up and around the room as if to make sure no one was eavesdropping. Then he dropped his voice again and went on.

"Listen, if the Ls weren't in bivouac right now, this minute, we couldn't talk about the fire at all. Maybe you've got that figured, too by now. Maybe you already got most of it worked out. Only, what can you or anyone else do about it?" he said and then dropped his voice again.  
"We told you and those other fellows there's trouble coming, didn't we? Well there is, because ... some people don't want us, any of us to get out of here, ever. That's why they sent that box. That's why it was sealed just like the letter we hid in it a million years ago or what seems like it now!

"Some people, they never once put their name to paper in all the time we've known them, except that one time; and they were ... kinda drunk then. They would kill off half the world to keep them from seeing it. They'd still be ready, willing, and eager to get rid of anyone who might get a look at it. That's why we took it. That was going to be our one and only ever bargaining chip!"

"Except they took the box away from you," Artie guessed, taking his cue from Youngster and speaking softly. "They stole the box, without knowing what you hid there?"

"As far as we can tell, they don't remember writing that letter to D Company. So, no they don't know we grabbed it. They only know the soldiers we carved during the War are damn well important to Oldest. So what about it, fellows, what are you going to do now? What are you planning to do, to keep ... those people from getting rid of you, too?"

Artemus half smiled, then glanced at Jacques and at Miguel. Both doctors nodded; and Jacques mouthed the single word, "D'accord,"

"Youngster, you mentioned again just now that L Company is in bivouac," the agent said. "That being the case we're going to need your help in just a few minutes. We're going to need you to ... sound Reveille, to wake them up for this to work. That's assuming the Companies have a way of doing precisely that, when they need to. I'm pretty sure that you and D, and V Company understand why we'd ask you to do that, don't you?"

Youngster unmistakably studied Artemus' face in silence for a moment. Then his right eyebrow flew up in a very familiar Westian expression of surprised comprehension.

"Oldest won't like it," he said. "Oldest won't like it one single bit. Guess you know that too, right?"

"Guess I do," Artie agreed. "I'll tell you what though; when Jim looks me in the eye and tells me off for doing this, I'll be happy to take my lumps. Oh and by the way, if you actually believe I'm about to try this to protect myself or Jacques or Miguel; or that they've agreed with me about it to protect themselves, then you haven't been paying attention for a very long while now."

"Who said we believed that?" Youngster asked, once more looking chagrinned if not downright uncomfortable, Artie thought. Then he shrugged.

"You do know the Ls need the most rest of all us, don't you? You do know they've been at this the longest, with ... the worst goings-on, right?"

Artie said nothing, only nodding in return; he knew this side of Jim West very well. It appeared most often when the younger agent lost an argument and was holding back on admitting the fact.

"I also know Torry ... and L Company has been having a lot of trouble, sleeping again," Artemus finally said. "That's no good. That just starts the downward spiral all over again, and you all have to know it by now. So, unless you have an alternative, or some very good reasons that I shouldn't try this... short-cut, I say let's get this show on the road."

"You won't like it," Youngster said, eyeing the former actor warily now. "You won't like it one bit."

"Already I'm not sure I like it," Artie replied. "What now?"

Youngster looked all three men over for another moment. Then he stood up from the cot, walked over to Miguel, and gestured for Artemus and Jacques to join them. Quietly, as if still thinking someone could be eavesdropping, Youngster explained his idea. Just as quietly, the three colleagues debated the prospect and finally nodded their agreement.

Youngster walked back to the cot, and stretched out on it, propped up on one elbow. Miguel turned back to frown over the journal he'd been reading. Jacques started to pace the room down and across, across and down, muttering to himself in his native tongue. Artemus in the meantime walked over to the table where Torry made drawings and maps for his games of ten's n' sojers. Absently this time Artie sifted through the sheets of paper. After a moment, the former actor took a deep breath, shook his head, and called out as if one or both doctors were hard of hearing:

"It's no good! It's no good whatever! It's just impossible! Why can't you see that? What are you thinking to even consider such a thing?"

"What choice do we have, mon ami?" Jacques asked in an angrier tone than his colleagues had heard in some time. "I see only two choices here, at best; and both of them involve the kind of trickery and deceit that caused this trouble to begin with. Are we to stoop to our adversary's methods? Yes! We must do so and sooner rather than later; we must fight fire with fire."

"No!" Miguel called out, shaking his head, glaring at Jacques, and then looking to Artemus.

"No, Jacques, the risks are far too great now. The child is too fragile, in more ways than one to sustain this sort of shock. Not only that, consider the potential damage, the long term harm that could be done to the trust we have been able to build with Torry and many more of his brothers.

"As surprising as it is to me, as surprising as it may be to you, as surprising as it is to him, for this one instance, I agree with Mr. Gordon. We cannot proceed with anything so dangerous to this entire endeavor. It cannot be done safely; therefore, it cannot be done. Primus, non nocere."

" 'First, do no harm'. You'll forgive me, Doctor if that last sounds ... out of the ordinary coming from you," Artemus noted.

Miguel turned to face Artemus now, frowning. "I just now said you were right; and you respond with mockery, Mr. Gordon?"

"It's a character flaw, Doctor," Artie answered shrugging. "I say what I'm thinking, unless I'm using someone else's words, that is."

"Of course," Miguel agreed. "You're an actor first and foremost after all; which simply put means you're a liar, a fraud and a trickster, who can't even come up with his own script."

Artemus closed his eyes for a moment and took another deep breath. The doctor had known him for a long while now, learning just where to prod, probe, or pinch.

"Scripts without actors, Doctor, are nothing but pieces of paper bound together that nobody looks at or reads, much less understands. I should know, I have a trunk filled with ones I wrote as a younger man. They're full of wonderful, imaginative stories, incredibly vivid characters, involved in breathtaking plots! I just couldn't find anyone with enough courage of their convictions to produce something new.

"One is about a sort of a rogue from England who is pressed into impersonating a captured Moldavian king. Another play is based on the writings of Cyrano de Bergerac. A third script involves another Englishman, who risks life and limb on a regular basis to save French aristocrats from the guillotine. It was too close to the plot of Tale of Two Cities; that came out around the time I finished writing 'The Pale Gentian', which was the code name of the hero.

" Seeing how popular Dickens's newest story became, I turned around and adapted it for the stage. At the same time, I worked out the beginnings of adaptations for some of Dumas' novels, Monte Cristo, Man in the Iron Mask, things like that. Then I wrote a series of plays about the struggle between good and evil... couched in terms of people accused of all sorts of heinous deeds, by the people who are committing those crimes and worse. I called them Tales of the Inquisition. I was going to write at least one play based on my experiences onstage and one about the War; but I haven't had enough time."

"Artemus, Miguel," Jacques started to say, after glancing at their audience of one. " Mes amis, this is hardly the time to discuss theatricals, I would think. We have far more pressing matters to decide, and sooner rather than later."

"We've already come to a decision on the most pressing matter, Dr. D'eglisier," Miguel insisted.

"This hazardous, hapless, hare-brained, idea of yours cannot and will not be undertaken where Torry is concerned."

Now it was Jacques' turn to breathe deeply and hold his tongue for a moment. They were playing a genuinely hazardous game here. They suspected they were under watch themselves, since the asylum was still in the possession of their adversaries. Their every word, every inflection, and every footstep must be weighed in the balance.

"J'mescuse, Senor Doctor de Cervantes," Jacques answered with rigid formality. "I would not have thought it necessary at this point to remind you that you came here and you remain here on the sufferance of my friends and I. James is our friend, and our responsibility, not yours. The child, non, the children we have encountered here are our charges not yours. James' family looks to us to see him freed from this vile compound and that we must do, and soon, lest he die here.

"More than two years have passed since James was horrendously injured and cruelly abandoned here, blinded, terribly ill, and half-mad. So I must ask, I must ask you now, both of you, how much longer are we to allow James to remain in this horrible place, technically under the control of our worst adversaries, in conditions that have proven deadly dangerous to his mind, his body and his spirit?

"Perhaps you have forgotten that James is my friend as well as yours, Artemus. Perhaps you have forgotten that he and I worked together on a great number of cases that took us up to Montreal, to Toronto, to Hudson's Bay, down to

New Orleans, and back up to St. Albans when Confederates raided there during the War.

"It's possible, I suppose that you see your friendship with James as closer, stronger, or more significant than his friendship with me, with Thomas, Jeremy, Francis, Edouard, or James Richmond. I don't know if that is the case. I know we must try anything and everything we can now, rather than sitting back in desolation. I know James would do no less than his all, were this situation reversed."

Artemus let his whole frame stiffen and the temper he had from his Hussar ancestors rise in his features and his eyes. This had to work. Not the least misstep now would go unnoticed and the smallest wrong move could topple the house of cards they were building.

"Are you seriously telling me you know Jim West better than I do, Jacques? Are you? Or are you simply implying that I won't go as far to help my best friend in the world as he would to help me?" the older agent asked, giving Jacques his cue to step up this perilous game of charades.

"Artemus," Jacques frowned, and took on a decidedly inappropriate avuncular manner. "You have no way of knowing what I am talking about, mon ami. You do not, because you were in no condition to observe James' reactions and behavior when you were beaten within an inch of your life, over two years and a half years ago.

"To say James was beside himself with rage is a vast understatement. To say he would gladly have throttled the thugs who harmed you and the men who hired them is another. In fact, it goes without saying that James went out after those men with his mind set on retribution, even revenge, not justice.

"You were not that far removed, after all from the terrible time in Arizona Territory when James thought you were murdered. So, in this one case, Artemus, Vraiment, I know our friend better than you. So, I know how far he would go in your aid, Artemus because we have seen it in James since the time he came to meet the President. We have seen it again from the time Thomas found him here!"

Artie sat back on the nearest cot, as if the wind had been knocked out of him. Biting his lower lip and rubbing his ear, the agent wished he could tell Jacques how outstanding his performance was.

"Well, you really know what to do with something besides a scalpel, don't you, mon docteur ami?" Artie asked. "I've heard the expression rapier wit, even rapier tongue. This time I guess I'm the one being served en brochette. Except you're not asking anything I haven't asked myself a billion times since Jim went missing, and then again since Thomas and you found Jim here; you've heard me asking: Am I to blame for this happening to ...our friend? Now I know the answer, at least as far as you're concerned, don't I? Merci, M'sieur le Docteur, mille fois merci!"

WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

SCENE NINETEEN

BALTIMORE COUNTY ASYLUM

INFIRMARY- SECOND FLOOR WARD

"Mr. Gordon! Dr. D'eglisier! What are you trying to do? Rework this wretched case from the beginning? Pull the half rotted roof of this place down on our heads? Bring half the so-called ward clerks in this compound up here to see what goes on? Miguel called out when Jacques stalked into the far corner of the infirmary to glare out the doorway. Once Jacques was there and Artemus seemed to be looking the other way, Miguel went on with his speech.

"What goes on with you two is what I'm wondering myself! This is not the time and hardly the place to air our frustrations and foibles! We must present a united front to the enemies all around us here! You will ruin what we have accomplished so far with this childish, egocentric quarreling. You are both right and you are both wrong. A middle ground must be agreed on or you will throw away months of effort!

"These children need us to work together, difficult as that can be when strong, healthy, supposedly intelligent men allow their healthy, strong, supposedly healthy egos to take over! What is important to you two, your status in the eyes of a blinded, sickened, wretched madman, your position in the life of a man who has no memory of you, or your quarrel over which of the two you bears responsibility for these children, since I am informed that I bear none?"

Jacques glanced at Artemus, giving his friend an instant's wink of approbation for his and the doctor's eloquence.

"It is possible, I suppose that I overstated the case where the care of these children within our friend is concerned, Doctor. I am exhausted from all this turmoil, as I can only imagine you and Artemus are. Still, as you note yourself, it is James, and his brothers who are in the worst, most desperate case here. Let us do whatever we may to change their circumstances, non?"

Artemus groaned loudly enough to wake the proverbial deaf old woman in the uppermost balcony.

"So, we're back to what you think we should try out on Jim and his brothers, is that it? We're back to the short-cut you came up with," the former actor asked, winking back at Jacques.

"Well before I even think about changing my mind on that score, tell me something, please, Jacques. Tell me you have something else in mind, some alternative way of getting Jim the hell out of here if your first idea doesn't work?"

"He does," Miguel answered before Jacques could. "He has another idea, which I find almost as worrisome as the first one. It's something Jacques and Jeremy and I discussed some months ago, when Torry and his brothers were incrementally healthier for a time. Going into autumn as we are now, I am even more concerned with the danger involved, and yet it seems our choices are swiftly diminishing. "

"The danger involved?" Artemus let out a harsh laugh. "Doctor, the danger involved in Jim staying here, the danger involved in getting him out, the danger involved in trying to bring him back to himself... what in the very devil isn't dangerous about this situation?"

"Nothing," Miguel agreed. "Nothing whatever. That is why I think we must try Jacques' second idea just as soon as the required substance can be obtained. I mean a sedative, Mr. Gordon, one that we would administer to Torry so that he might be carried out of here, unconscious. The clear danger involved in any such action is to his respiratory health, which is greatly impaired. In all candor, a strong enough dosage could trigger a bout of pneumonia, which as you know we have no cure for. In other words..."

"In other words, we might get Jim out of here at long last, if we can get those guards to look the other way; only to see him die of pneumonia a few days later." Artie finished, squeezing his eyes closed and shaking his head. "I can't accept that as an alternative. I won't! So, we're back to one choice and only one, aren't we? Well, before we make that choice there's something else you gentlemen need to see, something I only remembered myself this morning. "

Artemus went back to the table full of Torry's drawings, turned one of the larger sheets over and began to draw on it with charcoal from his pocket sketch kit. He drew three men's faces in total, all similar to some degree, two of them nearly identical; and then held the sheet up so that Miguel and Jacques could see it. Both doctors stared at the images and said nothing.

"Artemus," Miguel finally said after a minute. "That second sketch, between the other two, is undoubtedly you. Whom do these other faces belong to?"

"Two dead men, " Artie answered. "Here, on the left, as best I recall is Stephen West. On the right is Stefan Aynsley. The major differences between them is how grey Stephen's hair was the last time we met, in the late winter, early spring of '62-63, and the short box beard Aynsley wore. Otherwise, they could have been brothers; and I mean twin brothers.

Now, look what happens when I work a little more on my own battered, rumpled old mug:"

Taking up paper and charcoal, Artemus worked on the second sketch for a few minutes and held it up again. Now all three faces were astonishingly alike. Artemus had drawn his forehead incrementally wider, his hair less coarse, his nose with a higher bridge and a narrower tip, his eyes wider, his mouth somewhat narrower; and his eyebrows darker and thicker.

"Quite the resemblance," Miguel noted. "You could be the elder West's nephew, cousin or offspring, with those changes. I'd say take your forehead somewhat higher and the resemblance to Aynsley would be frightening."

"It frightens me already," Artie agreed. "Now, stop looking and start listening; and I'll add something much more important to the 'picture'."

Dropping his voice, so that only Jacques, who'd walked back across the infirmary and Miguel, could hear him, Artemus cleared his throat and began to speak with a decided Austrian-German accent.

"You will surely do as I say, Herr Gordon, Herren Doktors, or I will resort to far stricter means of acquiring your fullest cooperation. Science to its proper ends cannot be rushed, meine Herren; but to the requisite direction it can be prompted.' That's Stefan Aynsley.

Next Artemus sipped some water, closed his eyes for a moment, and continued.

"This is Stephen West: 'Jaimey and Alix are doing all right these days. They're sailin' the West Indies this spring. The islands always do a world of good for Alix, since she grew up there; and when she's well and happy, our Jaimey is the happiest man alive.' Except for their accents, even their voices were alike, strong, clear, and compelling, rich with the influences of their ancestor's languages and polished to a fairtheewell by their medical education. Now you know the basis of my aversion to this ... project."

"Oui," Jacques nodded. "Nous comprenons ce que vous avez dit. Quand allez-vous commencer, mon ami?"

"When will I begin?" Artie echoed eyes wide with apparent surprise. "When? Well, can you give me another five or ten, maybe fifteen minutes, mon ami?"

"Bien sur," Jacques agreed, as if his friend had asked for a match, a cigar or a hand up onto his horse. "In the meantime, Miguel and I will continue with the discussion. You see, Docteur de Cervantes, the soundness of my arguments has won Artemus over; and I think I begin to convince you as well, non?"

"Non," Miguel replied, "I am merely taking into consideration the dearth of viable alternatives before us. None of the ideas we've already talked over come without huge risks to Torry and his brothers. None of them have been attempted with him, or anyone else for so much as one hour; so we have no means of knowing if they can succeed. This is not a matter of testing vials of compounds in a laboratory, Docteur D'eglisier.

"This is a matter of testing a theory, a mere theory with no other experimentation whatsoever, no clinical studies, no statistical findings, no medical practice or teaching behind it, on the living mind of a human being! So, before you regale us with your recollections of my apparent willingness to experiment in that way in the past, let me remind you that I have abandoned all such measures and practices since I became a father."

"Funny how we keep coming back to the subject of fathers around here isn't it?" Artemus asked no one in particular.

"I had two, the first of no worth whatever, the second the best man I'll ever know. Jacques had one; and from all accounts, he came under that second heading. Certainly, he was a brave man, bringing his family from Lyons to Montreal. Your father seems to have been a remarkable man as well, Doctor; since I've never heard you say a word against him, or that he had anything but affection for you. Then there's Jim, who's said more than once that his uncle Jaimey, Thomas Macquillan and the President have been second fathers to him."

"Yes, so I've understood," Miguel nodded. "Apparently our adversaries understood that much about Torry as well. I thank you, Artemus for those good words about my father. He was a brilliant, great-hearted man in a generation when many men would have contemplating leaving a son as afflicted as I was from birth, somewhere to die."

"You're welcome, Doctor. Maybe it's the way Jim thinks of those men, and his father that makes me so reluctant to attempt the role now. He doesn't put Jaimey or Mac on a pedestal, neither of them would allow it; but the President just has to grin and bear it because Jim reveres him. What that means is I'm talking about taking on a part that has so many pieces for its intended audience of one; not only all those men are inescapably included; but the bastards who used that same role to break Jim down.

"So, I was wrong to call this a short cut before. It's not going to be short and it's not going to be easy; I'm going to hate every second and Jim is going to hate the whole thing, whenever, G-d willing, he finds out. He hates lies and liars; and I see no other choice but to lie to him over and over for an indefinite period of time."

"You will, we will be fighting fire with fire, mon ami. We will be opening the way by which Torry and his brothers can reach the truth of the matter once more," Jacques suggested. "That being the case, I say let's proceed. Are you now agreed, Miguel, that we must attempt this?"

"With one caveat," Miguel answered. "Which I think all of us already understand. I will explain that in a moment, as I think now we should return to our improvisation."

Taking his cue from the small doctor, Artemus raised his voice as if attempting to reach passersby on the sidewalk outside the Booth theatre in New York.

"What did you say just then, Doctor?" the former actor demanded. "Did you say I'm afraid to do whatever I can to help Jim West? How in the devil do you have the gall to say that to me? Do you think, can you possibly think I wouldn't run into hell for that man?"

"With the appropriate, duly appreciative audience, Mr. Gordon, naturally you would," Miguel replied.

"I submit it is only your actor's ego being challenged here that brought you to agree with Dr. D'eglisier just then. I further submit that now, with your pride badly stung and smarting, you will go on, unless you are checked, to make a shambles and a sham of any supposed help you might offer Torry.

"By the way, Mr. Gordon, why have you gone back to calling him Jim or James at this late date? This is a child; sir who only knows himself by the nickname his grandmother gave him. This is a sick and frightened child who needs all the help we can find for him; but I believe he needs nothing from those who doubt the reality of his condition and his life long attempt to survive the cruelty dealt him."

Artie pulled his mouth into one straight, angry line now. He narrowed his gaze and shook his head at the doctor. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other in evident discomfort; and then leaned against the cot behind him.

"I see, I see," the agent said. "So I'm the bad guy here, again. That way, you can take control of Jim, as you've always wanted to. You want to run me out of here in a towering rage, don't you, Doctor? You want me to abandon my best friend in the entire world. You want Jacques to get his Gallic temper up and go out right after me. You want us to leave Jim to you, and by the way, his name is Jim West, Doctor, so there's no one looking out for him but you, supposedly.

"You're looking for a way to drive Jacques and I, Frank, Jere, Ned and all the rest of Mac's and Ori's teams away so you can go on with your usual schemes and frauds and trickery. We're starting to catch onto you again, so we have to go! You're determined we should leave so you can get back to your old ideas about destroying James West. We're back to understanding that you're here for your own twisted purposes, not ours at all, so you want us gone. We're all to leave Jim here, so that you can finally take your frustrations at being smaller, older, less healthy, and less compassionate out on him!"

"Mon ami!" Jacques exclaimed continuing the play.

"That is certainly not the case here and you know it. You are letting your temper carry you away from your good sense now. Maudit! Arrêtez! Stop this at once!"

"It's all right, Jacques. Mr. Gordon has not finished what he wants to say, quite yet. Now, if I say I'm more than a little frustrated by your various attempts at interference, Mr. Gordon," Miguel asked smiling coldly.

"Will you take that as my answer to your incongruous accusations? Never mind! I have come here to help that child and his brothers, living, thinking, and feeling small personages, you have been reluctant at best to acknowledge! Well sir, as I've said so many times before; I've always found children, no matter what their provenance far more interesting, far more decent, more mature, and far more worth my time than any supposedly grown man I've ever met! Present company very much included!

"Have you once more refused to listen to your own colleagues as regards our discussions and the agreement we reached before I came here, Mr. Gordon? Have you dismissed everything I've said about the beneficent changes in my own life and the ways in which my perspective has been almost revolutionized? Or do you think I have invented all I have confided in Thomas, Jemison and Jacques, Franklin, Jeremy and Edward?

"I have a son, a living, thriving, completely healthy son, Mr. Gordon. For the first time one of the children Antoinette and I gave life to was born alive and still lives. We lost all the others, they were not ... viable in the least. My son is nearly five years old now. His name is Micah Diego.

"Jemison, Jacques, Thomas, and Franklin have all met my son. He and his mother are both in the pink of health; even though we miss greatly miss one another. Have none of your colleagues told you the reason for his given names? Micah is for Antoinette's father, back in Marseilles. Diego is for your partner who saved his life and his maman's only a few months before he was born.

"Are you utterly unable to understand how my son's birth, his health, his thriving has altered my perspective? Is your own compassion so paltry these days that it cannot stretch to imagine how fatherhood, that is the experience of having a living, thriving child can turn a man's mind from the bitterness and vengeance it sought before? Mr. Gordon in the midst of such a heated discussion as this one I hesitate to mention, much less ask, if you don't have some experience of your own in regard to children and their power to change the supposed grown people around them?"

Artemus looked away, biting back his first response because it was one of sheer, unremitting pain, not anger. Then he nodded, glancing at Jacques first and then Miguel.

"I ... had ... I had a ... daughter, " the agent whispered, squeezing his eyes shut.

"I ... I named her... Margalit Vered, Vered being my ima's name, Margaret ... her mother's name. It went against custom, you see. Traditionally, you don't name a child for someone who's died. Well, she died... during the first year of the War. I was ... two thousand miles away, in Washington. Did all that change me? I guess that depends on whom you ask. Maggie ... her mother never thought so."

"I'm sorry to probe an old wound, Mr. Gordon, I am, truly sorry." Miguel offered.

"I'm sorry for your losses," Artemus murmured. "We're getting way off track again here, and I'm feeling somewhat drained. Maybe we should take a different tactical approach. I don't know."

"Miguel?" a familiar voice called out. "Miguel, Miguel, Torry's here, why's you an' Demos an' Jac havin' a wrangle nows?"

All three men turned to face the figure sitting up on the cot. He sat back against the wall, kicking at the empty air, rubbing one eye with his fist, yawning and blinking, with a tiny frown on his face.

"Torry," Miguel said, keeping his voice calm, his tone warm. "We're not so much having a wrangle as we are trying to figure out a new play for you to try. You got so very tired of the other plays and games; we wanted to find something new. Come over and sit with me, Torry, and we'll find a new game."

Torry's frown deepened. His friends liked these talkinup games all the time. His friends wanted Torry to be talkinup in those kinda games and the Torrys didn't like them a bit. Bad, scary things came up in those games and made his chest hurt, made him all mixed up inside, and made his head achy. All kinds of sad, owwy, misr'bl things came up with these talkinup games, too. Then Torrys tried goin' asleep and couldn't do that anyhow.

"Torry's sittin here, comfy, nows. Torry don't want them talkinup games!" the child complained. "Torry don't like 'em a bit!"

"Then be silent un moment, mon enfant," Jacques patiently instructed. "We're making up a whole new game for you and we need new rules for it, non?"

"Non?" Torry echoed, placated by the absorbing mystery of why his friend Jac so often said _non_ as if it meant _oui_. "Oui?"

"Soyez calme mon si brave garçon!" Jacques chuckled.

"Torry's bein' calm nows, Jac, non?" the child answered, accepting the Montrealer's cheerful tone as reassurance.

Jacques turned back to Artemus and Miguel and Artie took the floor, dropping his voice again.

"I think we have to go ahead with Plan A now, doctors. Clearly Stefan Aynsley, damn him to Perdition, made a stone capped redoubt out of Torry's childish guilt at Elly West's passing. That's what he hasn't been able to talk about or grow past. That's why he's not six years old yet, I believe.

"We already talked about the lies I was fed in the short time I spent in that laboratory. Not even the whole nine days, because they had to get me there and haul me from there to that alleyway here in Baltimore. Aynsley's work lay in memory distortion, wreckage, and reconstitution. Sleep deprivation, Doctor? The dreams I had afterwards would keep the Sphinx awake!

"We have to ask Torry about the lie he was given to believe. We have to help him climb over that redoubt. Well, there's only one person he will answer without becoming terrified; or without going back into lock-up as Youngster said. So, let's raise the curtain and hope for a one-night hit, despite having no dress rehearsal."

"I thought we were just going through the dress rehearsal," Miguel quipped. "I suppose you'd rather I would not wish you good luck before you walk onstage?"

"Thank you, no," Artemus almost smiled.

Torry meanwhile was now dangling his legs off the cot, listening but not to his friends. He'd found a new distraction, when the iron framed cot squeaked and bounced under his weight. Torry, he soon learned, could make the cot squeak by moving back and forth, or sideways. He could make the cot bounce by bouncing himself up and down, up and down. The child let out one peal of giggles at these discoveries, then hushed.

Demos, Jacques and Miguel might not like him making such a noisy new game for himself. Grandmomma Rae didn't like noisy games a bit, or children bouncing on beds. Wide eyed, Torry waited a couple of breaths and then continued his study of the sounds he could get out of the rusting old cot.

Noise was the fines' way to get a grown folks attention. Even his smallest cousin, Baby-Stephany knew to wail when she wanted her momma, Torry's aunt Lissanne. Any time now, Jacques or Demos or Miguel, who acted oddly like grown folks when he was littler than Torry, would surely come over and tell him to stop. Reassured by this verity of his childhood, Torry bounced and giggled as his friends went on with their talkinup game.

"Artemus, un moment, mon ami," Jacques said, as Miguel seemed to withdraw into his thoughts, and Artie began to reach for the role of Stephen West.

"What is it, Jacques? If you'd like, I'll apologize for the cracks I made before," Artie asked, bemused, already concentrating on being someone other than Artemus Gordon.

"No apologies are needed," Jacques answered, and winked. 'So long as you did not mean to impugn my skill with a rapier, or a scalpel, mon ami. Mais, ecoutez-moi, Artemus. If you will now counterfeit Stephen West for his little son, you must acknowledge and accept what that role means to the child, and to you. Clearly, you know what it is to lose a father, and to lose a child as well. I remember that we met you and I not long after you had news of your small daughter's passing away. I remember how it shocked and grieved and informed everything you said and did afterwards.

"You had been Hamlet, mon ami, votre vrai pere Aurel had died. You became Lear, holding the tragic Cordelia, at that time. Now you must bring touches of both to this role. Now you must bring your wide, kind heart to this child, to this lost little boy, as you may not have entirely done as yet.

You must now become, as you said for an indefinite span, the father to a child nearly six years of age, a child who must once more live through the death of his Cher maman. If you fail, if you do not acknowledge and love this child as you do the grown man..."

"I will be doing precisely what Aynsley and his pal, this damnable, fatherless son, this Beauvais, did to Jim West," Artemus nodded, blinking as his eyes started to fill.

"Which by itself could destroy them both, outright. You're right, mon docteur ami, you're perfectly right; but you knew that, of course."

"Naturalement," Jacques grinned and stepped away.

"Torry wants the new play!" the child crowed, bored with his bouncing and squeaking game. "Where's the new game? Demos, Miguel, Jacques, Torry wants the new game!"

"Curtain up!" Artemus whispered and then turned away once more, drawing a deep breath. Lifting his head, drawing his shoulders back, and his chest up, the actor took up his role.

"Hush now, Torry Little!" he called out, his voice carrying his father and grandfather's Welsh music, the Yorkshire burr of his mother's people, and the Tidewater laziness that had mingled in Stephen West's speech over time.

"Hush now, child. I didn't come all the way up from Norfolk just to bring a new game. Come here, Torry Little and let me see how big you've grown. Come over here, son."

Torry sat bolt upright, almost falling off the edge of the cot. He knew that warm, kindly, strong voice beyond any doubt. He knew that voice; neither Aynsley nor Beauvais knew or cared to reproduce. Torry knew that voice out of a thousand others and he named its owner with a glad cry: "Poppa!"

Flinging himself off the cot, Torry tried to run in the direction of that beloved, terribly missed voice, tripped, and fell headlong. Out of long practice, Artemus reached for, caught, and carried the child over to where Miguel sat.

"Poppa, Poppa, Poppa," Torry squealed, holding onto the taller man like a sailor lost in a heavy sea. "Poppa, you camed back! You camed back! You camed back! Torry stayed, Poppa, Torry stayed here, Torry stayed waitin', Poppa, and you camed back!

Oh, Poppa you camed back!

"Miguel, Miguel, Demos, Demos, Jac, Jac! Torry's Poppa camed back! Torry knew his Poppa would maybe camed back!" the child chattered on, barely stopping to catch his breath.

"Torry didn't go no ovver places, Poppa! Torry didn't! Torry couldn't, couldn't go no ovver places! Torry stayed! Torry stayed and his Poppa camed back! Poppa, Poppa, Torry... Torry didn't go! Torry stayed here! Torry told Jac an' Quiet Tommy, Frankie and Neddy, Jeremee, an' Sean Ori, Demos and Kernl, and Miguel Torry couldn't go!"

"Yes, Torry, yes, I know," Artemus as Stephen answered. "I know you waited, my Little, my Torry Little. I know. I wish ... I wish it wasn't so very, very long... You were very good, a very good boy, Torry to wait for your old Poppa here.

"Now, when you're better, when you're stronger again, Torry, you'll come on home with me, won't you, son?" The former actor asked, and waited. This was a crucial test of their game. If the child remained obedient to Aynsley's brutal role-playing and Beauvais' lies, the whole scheme would fail disastrously.

"Can I, Poppa? Can Torry Little came on home? Can Torry Little came on home with us'ns guddes Poppa nows?" Torry asked, wide-eyed, still leaning against Artemus' shoulder.

" Poppa, you teld Torry Little he was s'posed t', was havta stay here. Was Torry gud enough Little to came on home?"

"Torry," Artemus said on a long drawn out sigh,

"I wanted... no, no, I didn't want you to stay here, ever, Torry Little. You had to stay because, well, how could your old Poppa find you again if you went somewhere else? And Torry, you're getting better now, aren't you? You're eating good food and sleeping now, aren't you, son?"

The child's face fell and his shoulders slumped as if he'd been struck on the back. After a moment Torry raised his head, bit his lower lip, turned his face away, and down.

"Didn't, Poppa," the child finally murmured, so sadly it broke Artemus' heart. "Torry didn't be so many eatin' them gud stuffs, Torry didn't be havin' so many of sleeps... Torry... Torry Little been havin' them old bad, scary dreams again, Poppa!" the little boy finally sobbed.

"Now Torry Little can't came on home with his Poppa! Now Torry can't came on home! Now Torry was no a gud Little boy! Now Torry was a bad and very bad boy! Now Torry can't came on home!"

WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

SCENE TWENTY

BALTIMORE COUNTY ASYLUM

INFIRMARY- SECOND FLOOR WARD

Artemus held the child close, feeling what Jacques had said he would need, a wellspring of love for this heart-broken, terrified little boy. He knew what it felt like to be a sad little boy, and scared when his ima was ill long ago. He knew he could ease the child away from what was promising to build into true hysterics, if he could just get Torry to take a few calming breaths.

"No, no Torry, no Torry, that's not so, that's just not so at all. Torry, take a deep breath for me, now. Torry little, listen to your old Poppa a minute, now. That's right, that's right, son, take another deep breath for me. That's right, Torry, that's just right. Listen, now," Artemus said keeping to Stephen's warm, kind voice.

"You're not a bad boy, not at all, not at all. You never were. I know that, Torry. I know that for certain sure. Poppa knows that for sure. Poppa knows a lot about little boys, you know that."

"Yeah, Poppa," the child nodded, hiccupping but taking deeper breaths as his Poppa asked. "You knows about Torry's brothers, Rees, and Nev and Cam Little, about Torry's cousins, Pauly and Robin, Owen and 'Mi', Neddy and Jemmy and Benjy and...all of 'em...and Danny and Josh, and Timmy and ..."

"Yes, yes, that's right," Artie said, before the child could go on with a list he knew covered some thirty or forty cousins, first cousins and cousins once, twice or three times removed.

"So what I know about little boys is sometimes they don't use their heads very well. That's why they need friends like Jacques and Thomas, Franklin and Jeremy and ... Miguel. That's why they need their old Poppas too. Now, now we're all going to help you get well, Torry, that's why I came back, that's why. You're going to help, too, Torry Little, you're going to help too, will you work that deal with your old Poppa now?"

Blinking, completely bewildered, the child nodded. 'Work that deal' was a phrase his very own Poppa, and his Grandpoppa up north in Chaymbrsbrg used all the time. "Torry Little will help?"

"Yes, yes, of course you will. You'll eat what we ask you to, and sleep when we say you should. You'll play sometimes and rest other times even if you don't go right to sleep. You'll have us all helping you, with all of our friends. Then when you're strong enough, Torry Little, guess what we'll do?"

Torry scrunched his face up because that helped him think about grown folks questions. He chewed on his lower lip because sometimes he needed to look for an answer there. He squinted and canted his head to one side and then the other because oftentimes the thinking about part he was missing would turn up on one side or the other.

"Ummm... we will be playin' some more, Poppa? We will maybe be runnin' round an bouncin' on the ovver cots an' playin' more tens' an sojers?" the child suggested.

Artemus held back a sigh; the little boy's idea of being able to do more was hedged in by the rules imposed on him here.

"More than that, Torry Little, much more when you're well and strong again, we'll go away from this awful place ... you and I, Miguel and Jacques and all of our good, good friends. We'll go pretty far away then. Now, can you guess where we'll go, Torry? Where do you think that'll be?"

Once more Torry pondered and then grinned, as he sat up again, slightly away from his 'Poppa'.

"Oreeegunn!" he called out, that being the name, as Torry pronounced it, of the most distant place he'd heard of as a small boy, the place all the grown folks talked about leaving Virginia for. "Willumett! Va'coovers! Sowffpasss! 'braskas! SaynJosefs, For' Keernee! Den we can be goin' Sacerm'... Saanfra... SaanHohsays, Cayrow, Deykotaas, an, Charrelstown, an Savaana, an In'pendenn, an SaynLou, an...th' th' Alamo in SaanAn'io!" Torry stopped to take a breath now while Artemus bit back another laugh, Jacques shook with silent laughter and Miguel shook his head at the child's confused itinerary.

"Den we can goes t' Roa'noks, Wins' on Sal'm, Willumsbur', to them pony islands for swimming them ponies, an' Jaayms-tow... Jaayms'townn, cause it's got Grandpoppa's and Jaimey's name and Torry's growed up name an' its got old buried howses an' old Injun ghosts an' we could be goin' ..."

"Torry!" Jacques exclaimed as his colleagues nearly doubled over with suppressed laughter. "Mon enfant, votre pere wishes to know where you would like to stay ... where you would like to live for a time, while you are getting well and strong again after we leave this place."

Torry blinked and fell silent. His enthusiasm fell away and he shuddered. His nightmares were suddenly alive in his mind again, shattering his dreams. All the harsh commands left within him by Aynsley and Beauvais were coming back to the fore. Their lies tangled and tripped him up at every step now. Their cruelty shook him like a high fever.

Dim, blinded half-memories told the child to dread the source and the consequences of his Poppa's anger. They whispered to Torry the nightmare version of his failings and flaws, of his terrible responsibility in his mother's death. His Poppa, according to the nightmare had every right to turn away from the child.

His Poppa left him alone and scared once, with orders to wait and to be obedient no matter what happened. His Poppa turned his back on Torry, after making certain the child was helpless, terrified, and compliant. Now his Poppa was here and Torry dreaded making him angry again.

"Torry?" Artemus asked. "Torry, child, what's the matter?"

"I teld, Poppa, I teld ... an' wasn't s'posed to be teld any, any, any peoples!" Torry said, hanging his head and hiding his face again in Artemus' shoulder. Torry couldn't make himself let go of his Poppa; but he couldn't help beginning to sob again either.

"Torry Little wasn't s'posed 't be talkinup, Poppa, Torry wasn't s'posed to be dis'bedien, weelfu, unroolee, bad, bad, bad Little boy! Torry Little wasn't s'posed to be teld any, any, any fings to any, any, any peoples! Torry stay here, Torry stay qwyat, Torry stay steeel,

"Torry stay here! Torry stay qwyat, Torry stay steeel,

Torry be like Small Genlmenns, Torry be bedien,

be gud, no runnin', no playin', no yellin', no talkinup, no yowlin, no skitterin', no cryin', be perlite, be gud, gud, gud..."

Artemus shuddered and sighed, the bastards who broke his friend and terrified this little boy were still alive and well in Torry's mind. Their rules were still holding the child in place as harshly as iron shackles.

"Torry, Torry Little, come here, come here, child and listen to Poppa, please listen to your old Poppa now," Artemus said, consciously stepping back into the role of Stephen West comforting his third born son. "Will you sip some water now, Torry and listen to Poppa?"

Miguel handed Jacques a cup of water now, which Jacques gave to Artemus. Coaxed to sip from it, Torry did so to please his Poppa.

" M' listenin', Poppa," the child said, and sipped more of the water. "Torry Little's listenin', Poppa."

"That's my good, good child!" Artemus as Stephen answered. "Here now, Torry Little, you're getting yourself worried for no cause, Torry. You had to tell Miguel, Jacques, and Thomas our very, very good friends about staying here, about waiting for Poppa. You had to son, or Poppa wouldn't be able to find you. We already talked about that, Torry.

"Don't be scared about that any, any more at all, Torry. Poppa's here, your Poppa's right here; and he's never going to leave you behind him again for a minute."

Torry pulled away from Gordon now, his eyes bright with tears and boyish anger. The contradictions between Aynsley's cold authority, Beauvais' harsh dictums and this Poppa's warmth and kindness were as dizzying as the mind-rending contrasts between Stephen Aynsley's patterning and Ulysses Grant's compassion.

"Poppa!" Torry whispered fiercely. "You teld me no be talkinup with any, any, any peoples! Torry couldn't go 'way with you, Poppa, Torry hadta stay here, no talkinup, Torry hadta be gud, gud, gud Little boy, because, because, because ... the baddes' very most baddes' ever fings would come back and hurt Torry's Poppa!

"Torry's Poppa would be so many saddy and maddy with Torry Little den! Torry's Poppa would be no ever, ever, ever, ever-camed back to find Torry! Torry's Poppa would go 'way far, an far an far an

far t' be ...t' be... t'be a angel with Cam Little, Grandpoppa Jaimey, an, an, an... Torry's very own bestest, guddes', prettiest, singin, smilin', ridin', happiest, bestest Momma! Den Torry's own Poppa would ... would... would go 'way far an far an far an far, because Torry Little made hims, an Torry's guddes' Momma go 'way t'be a angel!"

Artemus glanced at Miguel and Jacques now. Here was the core of the lies and the nightmares. This was leagues deeper and uglier than the callous falsehoods Aynsley had pressed on Artemus Gordon. Without being told, the three colleagues silently noted and agreed that Lucien Beauvais must have added this level of pain and terror to Torry's burdens.

The supposed disobedience of child not yet six years old was the basis of Liesl's trap and Aynsley's tangle.

In their distortions, Torry was at fault in his mother's death. That was all they needed the broken child-man-Courier to believe. Carrying that burden Courier went to Artemus and then to Ulysses Grant, and found his dispatch impossible to deliver.

This threat to the life of Torry's Poppa was a level of cruelty only a true sadist would employ against his victims. The cowardice required in placing such a threat against a child made Artemus sick to his core. Torry was never to talk about his tormentors or their lies and distortions because doing so would ultimately reveal them as the monsters they were.

To the bewildered child-mind, his disobedience would cause the death of his father.

Almost overcome with anger and loathing at the little boy's ordeal, Artemus hugged Torry for a moment.

"Torry, Torry, that's just not so, that's not so at all child. Poppa's here. Poppa's right here, Torry. Now, let Poppa sip some of that good, cold water. You ...just rest a moment, Torry Little. Will you do that, child?"

"Yes, yes, Poppa, yes, please sip some of the gud water, Poppa," Torry answered, handing the cup to the older man.

"Torry, mon enfant, come and sit with me un moment," Jacques offered. "Votre pere had a long journey to reach here, to find you. We'll let him take his ease for un moment, non?"

"Oui," Torry said, taking Jacques' arm, and walking back over to the bench the Montrealer occupied.

Incrementally, Artemus turned his face from Torry, squeezing his dark eyes closed and sipping the water without even tasting it.

"O, villain, villain," Artie whispered, knowing Torry could not understand the centuries' old language of Shakespeare's Hamlet.

"Smiling, damned villain!

My tables, meet it is I set it down,

That one may smile and smile and be a villain";

"Now I am alone.

O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!

Is it not monstrous that this player here,

But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,

Could force his soul so to his own conceit

That from her working all his visage wann'd,

Tears in his eyes, distraction in's aspect,

A broken voice, and his whole function suiting

With forms to his conceit? and all for nothing!

"For Hecuba!

What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,

That he should weep for her? What would he do,

Had he the motive and the cue for passion

That I have? He would drown the stage with tears

And cleave the general ear with horrid speech,

Make mad the guilty and appall the free,

Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed

The very faculties of eyes and ears.

"Yet I, A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak,

Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause,

And can say nothing; no, not for a king,

Upon whose property and most dear life

A damn'd defeat was made.

Am I a coward?

"Who calls me villain? Breaks my pate across?

Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face?

Tweaks me by the nose? Gives me the lie i' the throat,

As deep as to the lungs? Who does me this?

Ha!

"Swounds, I should take it: for it cannot be

But I am pigeon-liver'd, and lack gall

To make oppression bitter, or ere this

I should have fatted all the region kites

With this slave's offal: bloody, bawdy, villain!

Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain!

"O vengeance!

Why, what an ass am I! This is most brave,

That I, the son of a dear father murdered,

Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell,

Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words

And fall a-cursing like a very drab,"

"No, no, my friend, you are anything but a coward," Miguel answered just as quietly. "You've just proven the polar opposite to be the truth of the matter, again."

"Well, thank you, thank you for that...Miguel," Artemus said, "This is proving to be harder than I guessed; and I guessed it was going to be damned difficult. I don't think I even want to know what kind of monster does this harm to a child and then threatens him in that horrendous fashion! He has to be mad, doesn't he? He has to be out of his mind to be able to do this, doesn't he?"

"That may be too facile an explanation," Miguel answered. "Clearly it is this sort of treatment which shaped Torry's life from an early point on. I would not say however that Mr. West was mad; or not until his old and his new tormentors worked together. The original one, who it seems was this Beauvais may seem as sane as you or I, Jacques or Thomas, behind which façade, as with Mr. West, he may not even be aware of the damage done to him decades ago.

"The latter one, Aynsley, built his Courier on just that sort of broken foundation; and it's possible without knowing the whole situation. It's no wonder then that their plot failed. They believed they knew their subject, that is, Mr. West; so, they believed what their Courier could accomplish for them on that basis. From what Jeremy has learned, Beauvais' focus was not Grant but James Torrance; while Aynsley's target all along was the President.

" Certainly, the deaths of both Grant and Torrance were their major goals. I must surmise however that the scandal and shock arising from an attempt on the President's life by a trusted advisor, by Torrance' nephew would have sufficed in both cases. Let me add, that if Torry had died on that same day, or soon afterwards, our adversaries would have thought themselves safe from discovery; and perhaps they did. Again, they would have been completely wrong. They utterly failed to attain their goals or conceal their conspiracy because they knew neither Torry, his namesake, nor the President, nor... Artemus Gordon."

Artie shook his head and shrugged. "They certainly did a lot of damage trying to get what they wanted and learn what they didn't know. We've been shoring up the scenery, patching the boards, fixing the lights, clearing the greenroom out, locking the trapdoors and checking the curtains and scrims for their sabotage ever since. Of course, these fatherless sons didn't add Jacques, Mac or Frank, Jeremy, Ori or Ned into their equations, either. Moreover, they never anticipated the addition to Mac's team of one Dr. Antoinette Philomene Eugenie de Molyneux de Cervantes, a Sorbonne trained bio-chemist, and her spouse, Dr. Miguel Raul Enrique Quixote de Cervantes, master of many trades."

"Very kind of you, very kind indeed, sir," Miguel grinned, while Jacques, still sitting with Torry looked mildly bemused.

"Mr. West, I'm delighted to finally meet you, sir," the doctor went on, as Torry began to wiggle and squirm impatiently on the cot next to Jacques.

"It can only help Torry to have his father beside him at last."

"I hope that proves true, Doctor," Artemus as Stephen answered. "I surely do. Now, Torry, Torry little, come over to sit with your old Poppa again,"

"Torry's comin' over, Poppa," the child said, once more walking with Jacques help, across the room. "Torry's here, Poppa,"

"Well, that's fine, that's fine. Now, Torry, the most important thing in all this is also the hardest part of the whole ... trouble," Artemus said, knowing he was walking out on the thinnest ice yet where the nightmare-ridden child was concerned.

"Torry, you and I, you and your Poppa need to talk about the very scariest time ever. We need to talk about it, together, son; because I know now that it's gotten all tangled up in your head and it scares you and it hurts very much. Doesn't it, child?"

"Y-y-yes, Poppa," Torry answered, his eyes growing wide and fearful. "Yes, Poppa,"

"Well, listen to me, Torry, because Poppa's going to tell you something you never imagined. Poppa's going to tell you how mixed up, how tangled up and confuddled your Poppa was, in that scary, sad time. Poppa was so sad then, Torry, and he knew he couldn't walk around and work and take care of his littles, Rae and Alix, Meggy and Bree and Torry, the way he should, if he let the sadness come out all the time.

"Now that's the hardest part of being grown folks, Torry. The very hardest part is that you have to set your sadness to one side, your bad feelings, your being lonely, all of that to one side. Only sometimes, the bad, lonely, sad parts slip out, don't they? Sometimes even old grown folks like your Poppa let things slip out, no matter how hard they try. That's what your Poppa was trying so hard to do then, Torry, trying every day, all the time to keep the awful parts set to one side."

"An' some of 'em slipped out, yes, Poppa?" Torry asked, "Some of the bad fings slipped on out, yes? Torry sometimes has bad fings slip on out too, Poppa. It's hard and hard."

"Yes, yes it is," the older man agreed. "Now, Torry Little what I'm going to ask you to do now is a very hard and hard thing, too. I'm going to ask you to forgive your old Poppa when he lets something bad slip out. I'm going to ask you to forgive Poppa especially if he lets being angry slip out... Because, Torry, this is so very important. I want you to remember and see if you can understand:

"Poppa was never, never, never once angry with Torry Little, at that time, or with his sisters, or anyone at all. Poppa was just very sad and a bit tired, and lonely for your Momma then, Torry. Poppa was never, never once angry with his Torry Little. What happened, Torry was the tiredness and sadness, the loneliness, and the hurt from aching for your Momma turned and twisted around and ... came out as if Poppa was angry. Only Poppa was never angry with you.

"Grown folks can have a lot of trouble with that, Torry, when they're trying hard to only talk about happy times, funny times, or good times with their Littles. Can you remember that, Torry? Can you try to hold onto that until you can understand it? Because Poppa loves you, Torry, Poppa loves you with all his heart forever. Hold onto that, will you, Torry Little? Hold onto that, instead of the bad things, will you? Will you let go of the bad things so you can hold onto how much your Poppa loves you, child?"

Artemus could feel his own eyes welling with tears as he stopped talking again. He could see Torry's bright, blind eyes shining with tears. The agent knew it wasn't safe to talk about the rest of the lies used to ensnare Jim West now. That wasn't Artemus' focus just at present. He was certain his best friend understood what 'Stephen West' was saying. It was Torry who needed help to step away from the nightmares.

Torry held very still for a moment; and then put one hand on each of his 'Poppa's' arms.

"Torry can, Poppa, Torry can ... maybe... its hard and hard, Poppa, but Torry can, maybe," the child finally answered.

"Let's try this together, Torry," Miguel said, joining them with some aid from Jacques. "Let's try letting the bad things go so we can start holding onto the good ones. Let's start with letting the bad, scary dreams go, what do think, Torry? With your Poppa here, with Jacques and Miguel helping, don't you think we can try that now?"

"Yep, maybe," Torry said. "Maybe so."

"That's good, Torry, that's fine, just fine," Artemus said and looked down at the child's hands. Instead of holding onto the agent's coat sleeves, Torry had set one clenched fist on each of the agent's arms.

"Torry, Torry, child, do you know what? Miguel, Jacques look here. I see what the problem is right here, right this minute. Let Poppa show you, Torry Little,"

Jacques and Miguel each nodded now. They understood what Artemus meant to try next.

"Ummm, yes, Poppa," Torry said, still looking confused.

"All right, all right now, Torry," Artemus said. "Will you lift up both your hands for a minute? Poppa has something he wants to show you."

"Is it the new game, Poppa?" Torry asked, as if he abruptly recalled what Jacques said.

"No, Torry, it's much better, it will make things much better when we get it all done, though."

"Ummm, yes, Poppa, yes," Torry said and lifted his hands, still balled into fists.

"That's fine, Torry, that's just fine," Artemus went on. "Now here's what we're going to do, Poppa's going to lay his own hands out flat. Then, Torry's going to set one of his little hands onto each of Poppa's big old hands. After that, Jacques and Miguel are going to help us the rest of the way, just as they've been helping Torry all this time. Here we go,"

Artemus held his hands out palms up, thinking for once in his life he was glad for all the hours he and Jim spent on horseback. Otherwise his hands would never be as callused and toughened as they were now, as Stephen West's hands had been.

"Here are my hands, son," the former actor said.

"Now, just set each of your hands on mine, Torry Little."

Blinking and squinting in vivid bewilderment, Torry did as his Poppa asked him. This Poppa was the good, kind, loving and sad sometimes Poppa he remembered most of all. It wasn't as hard to do what this Poppa wanted. It almost wasn't scary.

"Here, Poppa," Torry said now. "Here's Torry's hands."

"That's fine, Torry, that's just fine. Now Miguel and Jacques are going to help us because this is the part that's harder. Poppa's going to hold your hands where they are now. Miguel and Jacques are going to help you open up your little hands. All three of us are going to help you open your little hands, so you can let go of the bad, scary dreams and some of the bad, scary times."

"Where's Demos, Poppa? Where'd Demos go?" Torry suddenly asked, childishly stalling what he was afraid to do.

"Demos went outside to talk with Sean Ori, Chris, Nolan, and Terry," Miguel answered, raising one eyebrow. This was a question they hadn't expected Torry to ask. Nolan Johnston was the oldest member of Ori's team, a former teamster from Boston, who sometimes worked with Terry Hawks and sometimes with the others. "They'll probably come back in a little while, Torry with bean soup and apples and bread."

"Oh," Torry said, and seemed to drop the question from his thoughts.

"Let's go ahead now, mon enfant," Jacques suggested. "Voyons si vous pouvez ouvrir vos mains sans aucune aide, non?"

"Non?" Torry echoed. He had no memory of learning French from his aunt Alix, his older sisters, from teachers in New Orleans or from Jacques in Quebec. Without those recollections, he'd still managed to retain a native fluency and comprehension.

Now the child struggled with the task of unclenching his hands. His hands and his arms shook with the effort, and failed. His fingernails dug all the harder into his hands. By himself, Torry could not let the scary times, the bad times or the nightmares go.

"Can't, can't, can't get 'em opened up, Jacques, Miguel. Can't get 'em opened, Poppa."

"Well then, Jacques and Miguel will help you out, Torry. So will I. You know they won't hurt you, Torry. You know Poppa won't, either. Isn't that so?" Artemus asked and then held his breath. The answer Torry gave now would ease their way or stop them in their tracks.

WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

SCENE TWENTY-ONE

BALTIMORE COUNTY ASYLUM

INFIRMARY- SECOND FLOOR WARD

Torry bit his lower lip, pulling it in as if to find the answer there. Blinking and tearing up, the child pulled away from Artemus; and the actor, wary of frightening Torry, let him do that.

"Poppa, Poppa, you teld Torry no be tellin' fibs! You teld Torry no be makin' up stories! You teld Torry no be sayin' dem white lies! Poppa, you did teld fibs! You teld Torry fibs!" the little boy finally cried out, pulling his right fist away and then his left.

"Poppa, you said, Torry stay heere, stay qwyat, stay steeel! Poppa, you said Torry best be bedien, be qwyat, be gud, gud, and gud boy all the times! Poppa you said Torry could no come with you if Torry been unroolee, weelfu, cryin', yowlin', dis'bedien! Poppa you went aways for the most longest ever times!

"Torry was bein' scared and tiredy, wif big coughs and hungry, wif fevers and scary, bad peoples, wif owwys, wif bad, scary dreams, all them times! Now you camed back, Poppa and you be teld Torry Little big old fibs! You be tellin' Torry Little hims no havta stay heere, hims no havta have bad, scary dreams, hims no havta be qwyat, be steeel, be scaredy!" the little boy drew in a deep breath and quieted down a bit.

"Torry's bein' sorree, Poppa for yellin' an hollerin' on you! Torry's bein' sorree, Poppa, only Torry gets all mixed up all the times nows! Torry's scared, Poppa! Torry's scared! No be goin' ways far an far, Poppa! No be goin' ways far an far an far t' be a angel, Poppa!"

Artemus bit back a stream of oaths and pulled the child close again, letting Torry sob into his shoulder and spend all his boyish anger, confusion, and fear. His own childhood pain was ringing in his mind now. The nightmarish version of it provided by Aynsley was there too. This was something he understood better than he ever wanted to.

"I'm not going away without my Torry Little," Artemus said after a moment. "I'm not going anywhere ever, ever, ever again without my child." Artemus said as the little boy once again began to be calm.

"You're coming with me, Torry, you're coming with me very, very soon now. Poppa is staying here with Torry until his little boy is stronger. Then we're getting on a train, and..."

"On a train, Poppa?" Torry asked, abruptly excited again. "On a really, really train with a big old whistle?"

"Yes, Torry, a real train with a steam whistle as big as a steeple," Artemus answered, grinning. This reaction was so close to Jim's normal fondness for the Wanderer that it seemed all the more hopeful. "Then we're going to visit Micah Diego and Ani in Richmond for a while, Torry. You'd like that wouldn't you, son?"

Sniffling and hiccupping, Torry almost smiled. "Torry can have some of Ani's gingerbreads, Poppa?"

"Surely you can, Torry," Artemus agreed, raising one eyebrow as he glanced at Miguel. "I've heard she makes wonderful gingerbread and nut bread and cakes. How did you know?"

"Micah Diego sent letters to Torry Little, Poppa," the child explained. "He makes the bumpy letters like Torry can make, and run over with hims fingers.

Micah Diego has a machine for making them bumpy letters. Torry has paper and a board for pressing them bumpy letters into the paper. Miguel is a Poppa, Poppa, Micah Diego is Miguel's little boy."

"Yes, yes he surely is," Artemus agreed, putting the tin cup back in Torry's hands.

"Now, Torry, come, sip some water again, and listen to your Poppa. We're going to finish the ...game we were just playing now. We need to finish it now, Torry."

"Ummm, yes, Poppa," the child said with vivid reluctance. Then he put each hand on the older man's palms and waited. "Here's Torry's hands, Poppa."

Miguel put his left hand on Torry's right, while Jacques covered Torry's left hand with his right.

"Allons, y," Jacques whispered, winking at his colleagues.

"Aalohnns eee," Torry repeated, and waited again.

"Now Torry," Miguel said. " I'm going to help you open your right hand. It's not going to be hard and it's not going to be scary any longer, because you're letting the scary parts go and just drop away. Jacques is going to help you open your left hand; and your Poppa is going to stay right where he is so you can feel his hands underneath yours.

"Together, all together," Miguel went on.

"We're letting the scary times and the bad dreams go now. We're letting them all go. They can't come near us any longer. They can't hurt us at all anymore. They can't come here; they can't even get to the door here any longer. That way, we can all leave for Richmond any time we choose."

"Poppa," Torry said, " will Miguel and Jacques, Demos, Tommy and Frankie, Kernl, Jeremee and Neddy come on home with us after we visit Micah Diego?"

"Yes, Torry, in fact I'm sure they'll come down to visit Micah Diego, too. Don't let Neddy eat all the nut bread when he comes to visit, Torry. Save some for Poppa." Artemus asked, smiling.

"Yes, Poppa," Torry said and repositioned his hands underneath those of his friends. "Poppa, will Bree, Emmy and Alix, Meggy and Rae be all home when we come on down there?"

"Yes, Torry, your sisters will all be there, and so will Jeanny and Pauly, Rob and a whole lot of your cousins." the agent answered, wondering if Torry was stalling again.

"That's gud," Torry nodded. "Miguel and Jac, you help Torry now, its hard and hard."

"Torry," Artemus said, another memory coming up that Jeremy gleaned from Donatielle Torrance, Torry's cousin. "I know what will help us do this now. Remember when you were small, Torry, what your grandmomma Rae would tell you and your cousins and sisters and brothers to do about a bad, scary dream?"

After frowning for a moment, Torry's face and his eyes finally lit up and he nodded.

"Grandmomma said, bad dreams aren't so, Poppa. Grandmomma said, bad dreams aren't really, really so. Torry Little, Meggy Little, Robby Little, Grandmomma said, bad dreams are only little heads getting things mixed up before they fall asleep and turning things upside down. Pauly Little, Jeanny Little, Emmy Little, bad dreams are nothing but little heads getting too excited to go to sleep right away. Bad dreams aren't so.

"Torry Little, Grandmomma Rae would say, if you have a bad dream here's what you want to do: Shake your little head and shake the bad dream off, squish the bad dream with your hands, tell it to go out the window or up through the ceiling, to just go away because bad dreams aren't so.

"Torry Little is so. Meggy is so, Bree and Alix, Pauly and Robby, Jeanny and Emmy and their little cousins are so. Bad dreams aren't so. They aren't real a bit. So if you have a bad dream Torry Little here's what you say: I am Torry, and I am so. If I have a bad dream, it won't hurt me, because dreams aren't so. I am Torry and I am so. I am Torry and I am so. When I have a bad dream, it isn't so. I am Torry and I am so. When I have a bad dream, I shake it off and throw it aways cos bad dreams aren't so, and they won't scare me, cos bad dreams aren't so."

"That's right, Torry, that's just right," Artemus answered. "Now, let Miguel and Jacques help you, child. Let them help you let those bad dreams go and throw them away. Please, Torry, please let them go, now."

Hanging his head, Torry struggled again, this time with the two doctor's help. Still he couldn't keep from clenching his hands again as soon as they were open. The nightmare was still stronger than the child. It had been his only companion for over a year.

"Can't, Poppa, can't, Poppa," the child mournfully whispered. "Can't. Torry can't. Torry's dis'bedien' again, Poppa. Torry's dis'bedien, again!"

"All right, all right, Torry," Artemus said, a new idea forming at this impasse. "This is hard and hard, Torry, I know that. We all know that. We're going to try. And Torry, you're a very, very good boy, child, not disobedient, not bad at all.

"Let's try something else. Poppa's right here, Torry. Poppa's right here and so is Miguel and so is Jacques. Demos is outside with Chris, Nolan, Terry, and Ori. Thomas is on his way to see Torry now. So let's try something else. It will be hard, too, Torry but we will all help.

"Torry all these scary dreams, all these bad dreams, they are great, great big, the biggest ever fibs in the whole world, son. That's all they are, Torry. They're great big fibs that scare us and hurt us because they ... they are so scared and hurt, Torry. They truly are; and misery loves company, remember that? Now I know my Torry doesn't like fibs anymore than I do, or anymore than Grandmomma Rae or Grandma Merey like them.

"I know you're mixed up now. I know that. So, I'm going to help you get that all untangled. Jacques is going to help and so is Miguel. We're going to untie all those knots; and you're going to help us do that. Torry, you're going to tell me the scare dream, the worst one. You're going to tell Poppa the scare dream and then we'll throw it away once and for all, all of us together."

Torry's eyes widened, his face paled and he started to shake.

"Poppa, Poppa, you said no be teld them scare dreams. Poppa, you said Torry don't be teld any scare dreams. Poppa, long and long and long times ago... Poppa some peoples said, Torry don't be teld them scare dreams, ever, ever, ever."

"All right, all right, Torry," Artemus said, feeling stymied again by the hovering spirit of Stephan Aynsley. Artemus had other ammunition to try, though. He had Thomas Macquillan's Alix and Jaimey Torrance' versions of the fire. "Then, let Poppa help now, all right? Here's what we'll do: Poppa will tell you what he thinks is the scare dream, Torry, the worst, most awful one. Then, all you need to do, child is to tell Poppa if he's right or he's wrong. You can do that, Torry, I know you can."

"Yes, Poppa?" Torry nodded, biting his lip again. "Torry can?"

"Yes, Torry, because I'm going to help you do it," Artemus said, mentally crossing his fingers and raising his eyes to the heavens.

"Now, Torry Little, I think the scare dream, the worst one comes from the saddest times... the very saddest times ever, when Grandpoppa Jaimey went to Heaven, and Cameron Little, and ... Momma went all up to Heaven. I think the scare dream, the most awful one comes from the days right after that when everyone was sad and mixed up and a little scared.

"Torry, while everyone was so mixed up, someone said the big, scary fire came from the stables. They said there was some hay in there that might not have been as dry as it should be. Torry, you might not remember about that sort of problem, so I'll try to explain it..."

"Yes, Poppa, Torry knows that. There's too many waters and the old hay bales ... they aren't good, they aren't good any more and they ... have fires," the child said, out of nowhere, giving a sketchy idea of the process.

"That's right. Now, Torry, the person who said that happened in Grandmomma's stables was wrong. What happened was that a lamp busted up in the attic and the oil started to burn some old rags there. So, Torry, the fire never came from the stables at all; and you were downstairs when it started up in the attic. Most of us were still downstairs, Torry.

"Nobody knocked over the lamp, nobody knew the oil caught fire. Nobody was up in the attic. Not everyone there even knew the back staircase down to the kitchen was closed off then, so it could be repaired. That's how it happened, Torry, that's how it started. Is that what the scare dream says?"

"N-n-no, Poppa," Torry whispered. "The scare... the scare dream... Only Poppa, you said the scare dreams made you so many sad you couldn't stay with your Torry little. Only Poppa, you said you had to go ways when they made you so many much sad. Poppa, you...you won't be goin' ways now? You won't be goin' ways?"

"No, Torry, no, I promise, I'm not going anywhere until you're strong enough to come with me. Now, lets go on, lets go on, son, and make this scare dream go away for always. The scare dream says the fire went from the stables to Grandmomma Rae's house, Torry, but it didn't, it went from the house to the hollow oak to the stables.

"Then the scare dream, Torry, it says you were supposed to go up the stairs at night with your Momma, but you didn't. Only, Torry, you weren't supposed to that night, because it was a party for your birthday. So many cousins and friends came over that day and night, Torry, no one thought you should go to bed early that once. That was another big fib, then.

"Now, do you see, Torry, that's two big fibs and they both say you did something you shouldn't; only it's simply not true. Of course, everyone was sad during those days. Of course, we all wanted it to be only a bad dream, and it wasn't.

"Here's what was so then, Torry that's still so: Your momma went up stairs to tuck Cameron Little in bed. He was still a very little boy, so she did that every night. Then she sat down next to his bed and fell asleep herself. Grandpoppa Jaimey went upstairs because he was tired and wanted to write in his journal before he went to sleep.

"There were some little round windows, windows without any glass, up in the attic, Torry, that must have let some of the summer storm in that night. There was a windstorm, Torry; and now it seems the wind could have knocked over that oil lamp. Well, the attic was full of old clothes and papers, son. The attic was drier than the rest of the house, too. That's why it got hot enough to start the fire up there, Torry. That's the only reason there was a fire. Is that what the scare dream says, Torry?"

"N-n-no, Poppa," Torry answered, "it doesn't. It says Torry little was dis'bedien, Poppa! It says Torry Little played in the barn and the new straw! It says Torry Little made ev'body so sad and hurted then,

so they went aways ... so they didn't want Torry Little any more! It said Torry Little was so many dis'bedien, his own prettiest, smilin', singin', bestest Momma had to be gone away t' be a angel!"

"And that's not so, is it, Torry? Now you remember, don't you, child, that's just not so."

"Not so, Poppa? That's not so?" Torry asked, as if afraid of the answer.

"No, no, Torry, its not so. Momma ... your precious Momma went to Heaven because ... because Cam Little needed her to go with him. Remember, Torry, he was the littlest one of you children. He couldn't go without his Momma. He just couldn't," Artemus said, hoping he was saying what Stephen West would say about his wife's death.

"Cam Little couldn't go anywheres without Momma," Torry nodded. "He couldn't. He was just little. Momma would still carry him around some of the times, then. Momma would still call him Babyboy, some times. Torry wasn't the baby, Meggy and Bree and Emmy weren't the babies, then. Cam Little was. He needed Momma. So she went t' be a angel with Grandpoppa and Cam Little."

"That's right, Torry, that's right. Now, now, Torry, why don't we try again to toss that old scare dream away?" Artemus asked.

"... Can try, Poppa," Torry said, putting his hands together, so that his left hand cradled his right fist.

"Can be tryin', "

"And we'll help," Miguel said. "Your Poppa, Jacques, and I. I have an idea of how to make that scare dream come loose, Torry, will you try it with us?"

"Can try, Miguel. Can try," the child answered.

"Good!" Jacques exclaimed. "Now, Torry, we know that your grandmother Raicheal called you Torry when you were a very small boy. She called you Torry because your uncle Jaimey and your gran pere both lived in the same home with you. Mais, there was another reason she gave you that family name, wasn't there, Torry? Where did the name come from, mon enfant?"

"Ummm... oh...ummm..." Torry scrunched his face up for thinking again, then smiled tiredly. "It camed from Grandpoppa Jaimey's Poppa, and his Poppa, and his, and his. They was all of them Torrens, then; and some old 'Lisbeth Queen no liked them Torrens. So she made a bad rule, and said they couldn't be them Torrens no any more.

"Only them Torrens didn't like that, and they wouldn't be some ovver names. They was called Aidan, an' Anrai, Padraig an' Micheal; only they was always bein' Jaimey for their first names. 'cause that old Lisbeth Queen didn't like Jaimey Torrens, that was ... long and long and long ago, so she hunged him.

"So, Grandmomma Rae ... when Torry got bigger, she told him, one of our little boys will always be called Jaimey Torrens, Torry Little, so we will remember that there are bad rules sometimes and that people can say no. She said, even when some of them Torrens went to 'stralia, or Texas, or J'mayca, or Roanoke, they had always little boys called Jaimey Torrens... always, because that old Lisbeth Queen told 'em they couldn't.

"So, my momma named me like Grandpoppa Jaimey and uncle Jaimey. And Grandmomma's other name was Keyrrnin, so uncle Jaimey was Jaimey Keyrrnin Torrens. So my momma named me like uncle Jaimey... like dis: Jaymes Keyrrnin Torrens West: Only when I was growin' up some, you has to say my growin' up name..." the child blinked, squinted and stopped talking, then shook his head.

As he did so, his voice and his affect both became very familiar to the colleagues. They held their breath and waited to see what, or who would follow.

"When I started going to prep schools for the Academy, I stopped being Torry, except down to home, in Norfolk or Raleigh, Concord, or Frederick or Wilmington or San Antonio, for that matter.

I started to sign my name out, James Kiernan Torrance West; and I started asking people to just call me Jim, and they did. They all did except for Mac Macquillan, who feels obliged to call me Jimmy, for reasons known only to him and G-d. I'm Jim West; but you already knew that."

"You could say that," Artie answered, wondering how long this newly emerged partner would stay around. "Glad to see you, James m'boy."

"Sure you are, partner," Jim laughed, as Artemus gave up solemnity and hugged him. "Only, leave the ribs where and as you found them, big guy!"

"If you say so," Artie laughed, stepping incrementally away. "How are you, Jim?"

" Badly confuddled at least six ways from Sunday, that's how," Jim replied. "Also, very much in the dark here. I don't suppose Mac forgot to pay the gas bill for the lights again, did he? Is that you hovering on my left, Jacques? Are you going to answer my question?"

"Bien sur, mon enfant," Jacques answered with a quick glance at his colleagues. "You were injured, James in the explosion of a revolver, one that may have been deliberately damaged or that simply jammed. Your hands and your face were badly burned, mon ami; and you received very little in the way of emergent care."

"How long ago, Jacques?" Jim asked, squaring his shoulders and lifting his head. "No beating around the bush now, mon docteur ami. How long ago was that explosion?"

"Two years and nearly four months ago, James." Jacques said. "You were as I said, very badly injured; but you saved the President's life."

"Guess I don't remember either of those things happening," Jim said. "Not sure I want to. The Man is all right, then."

"Fine as frog's hair," Artie chuckled. "Except for having to work while the Congress takes its vacation."

"Naturally, " Jim nodded, then turned his head. "Wait, there's someone else here..."

"I'm here, Mr. West," Miguel said. "Thomas, Jacques and Franklin came down to Richmond over a year ago, to ask for my help, which I've been very pleased to give."

"You've ... been very pleased to help me?" Jim echoed. "That should probably worry me a whole heckuva lot Doctor; and it doesn't. It's all right though, because not being worried about that, worries me a whole heckuva lot."

"It needn't," Miguel said. "I was only keeping a promise, one I made to myself, not to anyone else. I promised myself I would come to the aid of the man who saved Antoinette and our son from drowning. That man was you, Mr. West, one day out on the Sacramento River. Mother and son are doing quite well now. Antoinette is working on her latest serums and decoctions. Micah Diego is working on his spelling and his musical scales at our home in Richmond, which we call Isle de Tresor."

"Micah...Diego," Jim repeated. "Antoinette was..."

"Enceinte," Miguel answered. "A fact I was also unaware of that day. "Our son is five years old now, sound, bright as a new penny, whole, physically quite normal, and thriving. My thanks again."

"You...you're welcome. It's never been a habit of mine to let a woman drown before my eyes. Both my grandmothers, and my own mother would reach down from Glory to thrash me if I did any such thing. So, maybe you should thank them, not me, Doctor."

"At my first opportunity," Miguel chuckled. "What's wrong, Torry?" the doctor asked when the younger man suddenly looked worried.

"Smoke, I smell smoke from somewhere, Jim answered, frowning and turning his face to one side and then the other. Are there open windows in here or am I right to think this smoke is inside this building?" Jim asked.

"You're right, Jim," Ori Hoynes called out, as he ran into the infirmary," Wait, Jim? Hey, listen, I'm glad to see you, very glad; but we have to get all of you out of this damned place on the double-quick march! Chris, Jesse, and Matt found some damned fools setting fires all around the compound and in the Director's office. Whit, Danny, and Shipp found some of those thugs' pals doing the same thing in the alleyway next to the building. Someone wanted to burn this place to the ground! If they'd come here at night, we might not have caught them in time!"

Jim pulled a deep breath in and nodded. "There's no mistaking who sent those thugs, either. Only

Stephan Aynsley's most particular, most egotistical backer would use his favorite blend of pipe tobacco, complete with a dollop of latakia to set a fire!"

wwwwwwwwwwwwww

For the next hour the agents, the less cowardly ward clerks, and the healthier inmates rushed through the compound putting out fires. Healthier men helped weaker ones out the doors, weaker men helped the weakest ones climb onto stretchers, and everyone got out alive. Some of 'Duverny's' paid arsonists had over-stepped their orders and started their work a full day early.

Under hours of questioning, these men gave up what little they knew of their employer. They knew they were going to prison for arson and attempted murder. They were eager to lighten their sentences any way they could. Their 'boss' must be the wealthiest man in Maryland and five states around, they agreed. He handed out payments in hard, cold coin of the realm as if it was worthless, wartime greenbacks. He dressed, day or night better than

the fanciest swells in the richest Baltimore neighborhoods, he smoked one pipe after another of tobacco such as he had given them as tinder for the fire; and he talked 'like some kind of damn 'Frog' or 'Limey'.

"Duverny is another of his aliases."

Jim noted the next day. The frailest inmates from the asylum were now ensconced in the new wing of Erica Davidson's hospital across town. The healthier ones now had beds and care in the city's various unused halls and shelters.

"I don't know how many he's used over the years. I certainly don't know all of them; but that's one I've heard more than once. He's most likely on his way to Cuba, Jamaica, or Haiti by now, if he's heard about his latest plan going bust.

"He doesn't like to stick around for disasters anymore than he likes to leave loose ends lying around, like the records these thugs managed to destroy. This time, he got only got half of what he wanted. That means he'll come back for the rest, which already included Artemus and me, and now includes Miguel, Jacques, both of the teams, their families and friends.

"Then we'll be ready and waiting for him," James Richmond who had trained north overnight, replied.

"That we will," Artie, Jacques, and Miguel chorused.

"That's easier said than done, fellows, believe me," Jim said. "Wait, wait a minute, I just remembered something from ... before the fire. Miguel, you called me Torry,"

"I did," Miguel agreed. "Just as you called me Miguel."

The agent blinked and frowned again. "Torry is my family name, hardly anyone except my sisters and my cousins use it these days,"

"Yes, indeed, your maternal grandmother Raicheal Kiernan Torrance gave you that nickname as a very small child. Now, before you ask the inevitable next question, you were the one who told me that story." Miguel replied.

"Oh," Jim said and stayed quiet for a time, pondering a great many things that were new to him. "Seems as though you've been calling me Torry; and I've been calling you Miguel for some time now, doesn't it?" the agent finally noted.

"Something like two years, Torry," Miguel said. "If you prefer I go back to calling you Mr. West, now..."

"No, nope... no, that would feel as odd now as if I suddenly started calling Artie 'Gordon'. If I did that, Artie would think I was sore at him for some reason. I don't get sore at Artie, so that wouldn't make any sense, would it?"

"Of course not James," Artemus answered, starting to chuckle. "What could I possibly do to get you angry?"

Jim smiled tiredly and shook his head. "Well, you did hoard the peach cobbler Jeanny sent when we got back to Washington from... from Arizona, I think, a while ago." Shaking his head again, the agent sat back on the bench behind him.

"All right, all right, now I remember! You drank all the coffee in the pot. You didn't buy more coffee beans, either, and then you left the Wanderer...

Artie, how the heck long ago was that?"

"That was close to three years ago, Jim," Artie said with no little reluctance in his voice. "Do you remember ... what was going on, then?"

"Some of it, just some of it, Artie and what I am remembering is pretty rotten. Someone murdered Shimon Lehrer, your friend from Augusta. Someone was murdering dozens of ... Confederates, mostly... they were mostly from North Carolina," Jim answered.

"We should go down and see Zara and their kids, Artie. We should really..." once more Jim shook his head wearily and slid onto the bench, asleep.

"We will, Jim, we'll go down to Augusta the first chance we get." Artie promised, as he and their friends watched the younger agent for any sign of his brothers.

Finally, the little boy they'd come to recognize as Torry Little looked up at the group of friends and giggled before trying to look somber.

"Oldes' Torry is bein' all wornd out nows," the child said. "Yous guddes' friens, but yous gotta let Oldes' be some of sleepin', nows fer some whiles, we's gonna helps us'ns guddes' Oldes' be some sleepin, you no be any wakin' hims up, please, nows?"

"We won't, Torry," Miguel agreed. "We'll try to take better care now of you and your brothers, too."

"Yous did veryiest gud, yous did," the child said, his eyelids drooping. "Yous just didn't have the same many times of practicin' takin' care of us'ns funnies', sillies', braves' Vs,"

"Then you can teach us how to do that, mon enfant," Jacques suggested.

"Uh-huh, wees can... wees guddes' teachin' us'ns brovvers," Torry said and fell sound asleep.

WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

SCENE TWENTY-TWO

THE WANDERER

MARCH 1875

James West lay comfortably propped on the divan in his cabin aboard the Wanderer. The train, sleeping quarters, varnish car, stable car and engine, was now his and his partner's, as an extraordinary gift from the President of the United States. The refurbished extended lab and kitchen, with the addition of more sleeping quarters, a tiny music room, and a traveling menagerie were especially the Man's gift to Artemus Gordon.

Jim West had not been on board the Wanderer until this week, over three years from the time he left in search of an unknown band of killers. Having found Stephan Aynsley and his own near-destruction, the agent had been reluctant to come back; but now found himself relaxing as if he was home. The train presently sat in the rebuilt main train station in Richmond, while preparations went on to take West and Gordon to visit friends and family in Norfolk, Wilmington, Raleigh, and Frederick in approximately that order.

Jim had come back to himself, as he put it, in increments, over the past months. He was not fully recovered or fully sighted again, not yet. He was wary of becoming too hopeful and restless as a caged mountain lion at being 'on the sick list'. His doctors agreed that a trip might distract Jim from the former and ease the latter trouble.

To protect his recovery, bedclothes and furniture surrounded Jim. A mountain of blankets and duvets nearly smothered the agent where he sat. A brace of chairs barricaded the divan. Jim was not permitted to leave the cabin, unless a stronger, sounder friend aided his steps.

Beyond that, the cabin was curtained and heavily shaded against the waning afternoon light. West's eyes were further protected by a green bank teller's visor with the curved bill of a kepi. If his still clouded vision showed the least sign of strain, Jim's eyes were padded and swathed in cotton gauze, to keep out any source of light, which still caused him pain.

Several delicate surgical procedures, with more to come, had brought Jim's vision to a viable place.

He could see again, he could do without dark spectacles, if he didn't strain his eyes for too long at a time. His doctors, led by Jacques D'eglisier constantly warned the agent that any carelessness could blind Jim again, with no recourse and no hope. With that in mind, Jim kept to all precautions, with the devotion of a man impatient for a miracle.

His physical strength, his sanity, and his memory were returning at a less deliberate pace. It wasn't happening fast enough to suit Jim, soon enough to satisfy his superiors; but astoundingly quickly to his friends. Neither his doctors, his superiors nor his friends had believed Jim West could survive his long ordeal when he was found. All of them, and Jim knew the past few years had changed him forever. When he was fully recovered, sane, sighted and sound, James West would never be the same man who left the Wanderer three years ago.

Deep in such thoughts, musing over past and future more and more often of late, Jim was not alone in his cabin. This was another change, one no one protested. The agent loathed solitude now the way he once avoided a crowd. Today Jacques D'eglisier stood at the end of the divan, watching Jim and waiting a further word with his friend and patient before leaving for Norfolk. Artemus Gordon sat in a Windsor chair less than a yard from the divan, ready at a moment's notice to help his friend. Both Artemus and Jacques were astonished, but not as much as they would have been three years ago, to see tears brightening Jim's green eyes.

Jacques had just explained to the younger agent that Stephan Aynsley was more than two years dead, apparently by his own hand. A Baltimore building company had just pulled down the wreckage of the Rosenburg with an eye for expanding into the countryside between Baltimore and Annapolis. The news was a release, for Jim; and conversely another indictment. His returning memories paired with a sense of responsibility in the agent that his friends found out of balance to say the least.

"Jim," Artie said quietly. "Aynsley was crazier than..."

"Than I was?" Jim asked. "Are you sure, Artie? Are you very sure of that? I'm not."

"There is too much light in here," Jacques announced. "Look at me, James. Oui, j'ais raison, I will cover your eyes. You are doing them no good whatever this way."

"No, Jacques, please," Jim pleaded, putting his hands up to stop his friends. "I hate cotton gauze, and those cobalt spectacles make my skin crawl these days. I'll go back to my little corner on the bed in just a bit. I'll be a good little patient..."

"Patient, mon enfant is not and never will be a word I use to describe you," Jacques laughed. "Nevertheless, I take your point. C'est bon, did not Professor Aynsley say you would never be able to do what you just did, again?"

"Do what, Jacques? Mon docteur ami, Stephan said I would be blind the rest of my life. That's about the only thing I remember now from those few days between ... the Maryland House and the asylum. Well, I was very, very blind and it could have been for the rest of my life."

"Non, mon ami, vous ne me écoute pas." Jacques protested. "Aynsley would have it that you could not recognize me, James; and you could not, not so very long ago. Nor could I recognize you, mon enfant, not at first. You have recovered to a great extent. Only now you have no patience for the work that remains, non?"

"Oui, tu as raison," Jim agreed. "It's just that three years is a long time to lose track of; and a long time to realize you were out of your mind. Of course, I'm not well, yet, as if you can't tell that from my temper tantrums and crying jags. You might as well have Torry Little and his brothers back."

"Hardly, James," Artie quipped. "They were more fun to have around."

"Thanks, Artie," Jim chuckled. "Thanks a lot, partner. Keep it up, I'll cut you off my Purim gift list!"

"That's a low blow, James!" Artie laughed back. "I was so wanting a new chemistry set, too!"

"No, no, no more chemistry sets for you!" Jim joked, glad to be silly for a while. "We can't send to Washington to replace the train anymore, you know that, right? Wait, what's wrong now, what did I say"" Jim asked as Artie's face fell and the older man looked away.

"That was something else in the report about Aynsley's being confirmed dead now, Jim," Artie said. "It seems that before he died he wrote one last time to friends of his sister's family in Atlanta, and their solicitor. It's the strangest thing, Jim,"

"What is? What?" Jim asked.

"Aynsley sent a revised version of his will to this attorney in Atlanta. He named Mac Macquillan his executor, and you his heir. We thought all his funding came from ... well, other people. Well, maybe it did; but Stephan Aynsley was a wealthy man in his own right. So now, so are you."

Jim sat very still for a moment, blinking and squinting under the green visor's shield. Frowning and muttering for a few minutes more, the agent finally lifted his head.

"All right, all right," Jim said. "This is what we're going to do about that. G-d knows, I don't want Stephan's money or his legacy. So here's what we're going to do: Get all three of them, Cecily, Liesl and Stephan decently re-interred in Atlanta with the Branoch family there. Give a barrel or two of that money to the church Liesl's father was pastor for, St. Phillip's I think it is. Trace down Cecily's family if we can at all and give them another barrel or two.

"Get back to the site of Stephan's house and disinter the men buried together there before the builders can destroy their grave. Take however much of Stephan's money they need to bury them with some dignity and honor and a monument, as close to the site as possible. Find the rest of the men who were locked up in that damned asylum and see that some of that money helps them, too," Jim went on, a familiar determination in his eyes and in his voice.

"Jim," Artie protested. "Aynsley thought he was providing life long funding for the needs of a madman he'd all but destroyed."

Jim glanced up at Artie and the dark haired agent stopped. His partner was in full steamroller mode; and wasn't about to slow down, much less quit.

"All right, all right, here's the rest of what we're going to do: Go to Mrs. Davidson in Baltimore and give her as many barrels of money as she says it will take to build a real asylum for genuine lunatics, derelicts, and such. Spend some of the money, no, spend a lot of what's left by then on housing and care for veterans all around this part of the world and as far as it will stretch, especially indigent ones, especially ones living on the streets.

"Give some of it to Miri and Shoshi, and Maggie, Artie, your family, out in the City, they could have lost their big brother a few years ago, and that's not all right. Give some of it to Zara; go to Augusta and set up trusts for Zara and her children. Then, give a pile of the money that's still there to Ani and Micah, they could have lost his father over this. Some goes to Jacques' niece up in Montreal, too, no arguments, mon docteur ami. The climate in Baltimore did wonders for your asthma, and we all know that.

"Take whatever's left and spread it around anyplace we can find where ... that old friend of mine did his worst work. Start in Athens, Augusta, and all around there. Don't save one dime. Don't save one bit. Spend every single last cent of it. Spend it all. I don't want one penny left after all that gets done, not one."

"What about your sisters, James m'boy?" Artemus asked shaking his head at his stubbornly smiling friend. "They could have lost you,"

"They've all got trusts and such from Grandma Rae, from Dad, from Jaimey, from Grandma Merey in Chambersburg, from all over the place." Jim shook his head. "I do, too. Oh, and Artie, I guess you can have that chemistry set, after all."

"What about that steak dinner you promised me the next time we're in New York, Chicago or the Tenderloin?" Artie joked, well aware of Jim's frugal nature where such things were concerned.

A lightning grin lit Jim's face at that. "Promised you? Did I do that? Partner, I'm sorry, there are so many things I just can't recall these days."

"And that would have to be one of them," Artemus laughed. "Jacques, it looks like you're going to have to get down to Norfolk and marry Jeanny after all. She's not getting one red penny from her suddenly wealthy cousin, it seems."

"Non, c'est vrai," Jacques chuckled. "Au succor! No wealthy widow for me! Eh, bien, young Timothea is an heiress in her own right after all, perhaps she will share that inheritance with her cher maman. If not, quelle domage! Only now you are tiring of all this nonsense, mon enfant, we will let you take some rest, oui?"

"Non!" Jim exclaimed. "Jacques, I don't think you understand why I'd rather see Stephan's wealth go anywhere but to me. Stephan's dead by his own hand, you say. Liesl died ... horribly, I know that now and I'm almost glad I can't remember seeing her 'go asleep' in that hallway. Cecily, who wanted to be a richman's wife or if not that, certainly his paramour, only she chose the worst, worst possible object of her schoolgirl's desire; from what I've since learned he killed her even more directly than he killed Liesl by sending her into Baltimore that day.

"So now I am all that's left of that conspiracy, unless you want to split hairs and say Courier is. Well here I am, alive, recuperating, protected, even rewarded! It just doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me.

Courier is part of me, so I can't keep saying he went to see the President, he pulled a revolver on the Man, and he tried to assassinate Ulysses Grant! I did!

My Navy Colt revolver was hidden in Liesl's veil. Another one was in the rig I wore with that dress uniform and both were jammed, or tampered with so they would chain fire.

"Stephan and his backers and friends tried everything they could lay their hands to, to murder the President that day, to be sure he died. It was nothing, nothing but the purest chance that they failed. It was all chance and my childhood nightmare, chance and my own egotism. It was chance and Liesl's lack of knowledge about firearms, chance, and Liesl's helpless insanity that kept them from getting their bloody handed way.

"I am that Courier, you both know that, a whole lot of people know that now. I was in that suite with the President, holding a loaded revolver on Ulysses Grant. I was the one the conspirators chose for that job. So Shimon died and Artemus nearly died because of me! Not only that, all those men, all those former soldiers, do we even know how many? They were tortured and murdered, for no reason at all it turns out; because my... 'life-long friend' from Georgia intended to use me and only me for his damnable plan! Well, I became their Courier and I should at the very least be ... court-martialed." Jim concluded, shuddering at the image of imprisonment his words evoked.

"Non," Jacques insisted, frowning and sitting beside Jim again. "Non, ce ne est pas juste du tout. Vous préparez le blâme sur ceux qui étaient trop fou pour être chargée du tout. T'as pas rapport."

"I'm not making sense?" Jim translated the last phrase, straight from the streets of Montreal.

"No, you're not," Artie answered. "Don't worry, Jim. It's not the first time that happened and it won't be the last."

Jim said nothing to that. He only frowned and turned away; his shoulders slumped and head down.

Jacques shrugged as only a Frenchman can and sat down beside the divan. "Mon enfant, have you not been attending at all to what more we've told you recently? In part through Aynsley's recovered correspondence, many of his co-conspirators are found, jailed, indicted and awaiting trial for conspiracy to commit treason. They will certainly be convicted, imprisoned, and in some cases hung, even though as Miguel points out, hanging is too good for them. "They are without question more responsible, and more reprehensible, legally and ethically than Aynsley, those two sad girls, or their Courier could possibly be. They gave their funds to this attempt on the President's life!" Jacques exclaimed and lapsed into his native French.

"Ensuite, ces lâches se rassit, en attendant de recueillir les dépouilles d'un coup d'Etat. Ils étaient tout à fait disposés que des centaines de bons jeunes hommes devraient être tourmentés et tués pour gagner le pouvoir qu'ils cherchaient. Ces lâches, mon enfant, ces mauvais, hommes sans âme, causé toute cette agitation, le chagrin et la douleur. Ce qu'il en coûte en vies humaines et les cœurs humains qu'ils se souciaient rien pour."

"Hommes sans âme," Jim repeated. "I can go with that one. That one fits... someone who will pay for his part in this when hell freezes over and not one second before."

"Jim," Artie intervened. "You're just wearing yourself down with this. You're not at fault in this; not according to the Service, the Treasury Department, or the President of the United States. You're not responsible for actions done after Aynsley and company drove you out of your mind.

How could you be? There's one and only one person who doesn't see the matter that way, and I'm looking right at him, right now. So stop wasting the strength you're just now getting back and let yourself down off that hook. You're not helping anyone this way."

"What am I supposed to do? What can I do?" Jim bitterly demanded looking up again. "I'm halfway between a maddened child and a blind beggar as things stand now. I remember more than I want to about Stephan's laboratory and his damned devices. I remember more than I'll ever be able to accept that Liesl and Cecily and Stephan told me about the men they tortured and killed. I remember, I just barely remember some few elements of the day I nearly assassinated President Grant.

I remember my grown-folks name now, too. I just don't have the least notion of whom in the very devil I am! Who is Jim West? What is he, anyway? One tiny fraction of a man who barely exists? An agent, a killer, a spy, an empty-hearted automaton who has my face? A person who's been divided in so many ways for so long he hardly knows up from down? A machine-monster on two legs with no purpose but taking lives and watching maddened little girls die?

"At least Torry Little knew he was supposed to be alone and silent and blind. He knew he'd done something so awfully bad his very own poppa couldn't stay with him, and his bestest ever momma had to go away far and far to be an angel! He knew he couldn't move, couldn't talk, couldn't play, and couldn't do anything against the rules his Poppa left.

He knew he had brothers he had to hide from the monsters on two legs in that place, because they were as bad or worse than the worst monster he'd ever known."

Jim turned his gaze from Jacques' frown to Artie's worried silence.

"What am I s'posed t' do now, 'Poppa'? What in the hell am I supposed to do?" the younger agent asked, speaking aloud the dilemma of deceit and trust that still lay between these friends.

"You could always try abusing your friends," Artie answered, with more of an edge to his voice than he'd wanted there. "If that doesn't work though, you can always fall back on hiding from them, running from them, scaring the heart out of them or completely misunderstanding and distrusting them. You've shown a real talent for that, recently, partner."

"Haven't I, though?" Jim asked. "I'm ... I'm sorry, I'm sorry both of you. You must want Torry back by now."

"I would say it is you who wants that now, mon enfant." Jacques replied. "Is that so?"

"Sometimes," Jim nodded, curling his shoulders inward again. "I don't find much to want in Jim West, whoever he is, these days."

"That's fine, James, that's fine," Artie said, with an edge to his voice he wanted there. "Except for one tiny, insignificant, all-but meaningless little thing. Jacques and I, Miguel and Ani, Thomas and Frank, Jeremy, Ned, Ori and his team, Jeanny, Alix and your sisters and other cousins did not, you hear me, did not live through the past three years only for the sake of that sad, scared little boy. So you will stay with us now, partner or I'll wring your neck.

"You admit yourself you're not entirely well yet, Jim. Fine, that's absolutely fine. When you are, your brothers can go on a richly deserved sabbatical. The Torrys can go back to playing like actual little boys. The others can study, hike, sail, or ride all they want; and the man who told us to call him Jim can take his life back. In the meantime, we're damnably patient around here. We'll wait however long that takes, won't we, Jacques?"

"Bien sur," Jacques replied. "Again, and again I tell you, James. You must take this recovery slowly, or lose all you have gained."

Then Jacques bent down to examine Jim's eyes, which had grown bright again even with the green visor's aid. "Oui, alors je ai pensé. Vos yeux vous donnent la douleur même dans cette lumière tamisée. You must sleep the rest of the day and most of tomorrow, mon enfant; or I shall forbid this journey home for another month. Follow my orders to the letter now, James, or I shall indeed enforce them."

The Montrealer took a spoon and a bottle of laudanum from the shelf behind him. Setting them on the bedside table, when Jim frowned, Jacques pulled first a syringe and then a roll of gauze from his satchel.

"Jacques, Jacques, it's all right, I get your point," Jim insisted, shivering at the thought of even temporary blindness. "I don't need either of those to sleep. You and Miguel both said so, just a few days ago. I'll sleep. I... I'd like to see Miguel if he can come over tomorrow, if Ani's feeling all right. She wasn't, when we packed up to leave for the train the other day."

"I'll send a wire," Artie answered. "I hope Ani's not ill."

"Antoinette is quite well in fact," Jacques grinned now. "Elle est enceinte une fois de plus, mais très bien, et très heureux."

Jim and Artie cheered wildly at this news, clapping each other and Jacques on the shoulders and back as if they were the ones due congratulations. Jim allowed his partners to help him back to his bed, the divan was moved, and the bird's nest chairs now blockaded his berth.

"No more talking," Jacques said as he prepared to leave the train. "Not from either of you."

Obediently silent for once, the partners grinned goodbye. Jim then lay back, closing his eyes, knowing Artie would listen and watch until the younger man started to snore. Snatches of conversations with his friends echoed and spun in his mind. Some part of himself, of his identity as James West was irrevocably lost over the past three years. The agent, recovering himself slowly, still wondered what was gone and even more, who remained.

Always a private, even solitary man, Jim now found privacy unnerved him and solitude made him lonely, not relaxed. Always as taciturn as his Pennsylvania born father, Jim was often gregarious now, talking to keep a listener with him, to hold off being alone. Once somewhat claustrophobic, the agent knew how he learned precisely what genuinely close quarters were.

His cabin, that once seemed crowded and cramped was comfortably open and often filled with friends. Even the restrictions placed on an invalid seemed to comfort Jim at times. He welcomed attention. He fairly basked in his friends' concern for him. Yet Jim West felt he no more deserved their friendship these days than he believed mad Liesl deserved to die.

Jim knew that Aynsley, well supplied with the agent's family history, crippled and broke him, using his unacknowledged loneliness, his facade of unconcern, and his pride. He knew and to some extent he remembered how that loneliness, that diffident isolation, that unmoved, immovable affect of indifference took shape. He was more painfully aware than ever before now, of the ways, his impassive demeanor hurt those he loved, and as an icy sort of bonus, fed his loneliness.

Now Jim sought healing in the company, the aid, the compassion, and affection of his friends. Those who searched for, found, and rescued him were vital to his strength, his wellbeing, and his identity. They proved that true, again and again. Yet West also knew a divide remained between him and his fire-tried friends. It was another reproach to him that his recovering sight made Jim wonder if he'd been blind all his adult life. He understood now that he'd never once been alone in hell the past three years.

"You could not recognize me, James," Jacques said today. "... Nor I you, at the start." Jim wanted to tell the Montrealer that he never recognized him, Artie, Jeremy, Frank, or Miguel until a few months ago; that he would never have known them again without their patiently stubborn help.

Miguel, Jim thought, knows exactly what he did for me, what he means to go on doing. And he flies into a rage when I even try to say thanks! He was the man who said he'd save my life when no one else could. He was the one who wanted to twist gratitude out of me like the stone out of an unripe peach. That's what he said to a courtroom full of adversaries six years ago and a little more.

Miguel, now that I'm sound and sane enough to be decently grateful, you don't want gratitude?

What the devil do you want? A thousand times, it seems, I've tried to undo my first reaction to seeing you again. I can't. How can I? I nearly jumped off the cot! I could have twisted a blunt letter opener in your spine and caused you less pain! You walked into, you stayed in hell for over two years, and that was your reward? That was your thanks? You should be wishing Torry back! Torry loved you the way he loved his Poppa. You loved that sick little boy. You left your own little boy hundreds of miles away to stay with Torry Little. How can I not thank you for that?

Torry loved you, he still does; and all I managed to say was I can never hate you again, much less call you Miguelito Loveless. You had the temerity to try passing Jacques off as the one who's restoring my sight. I knew better than that, and Jacques would never let it fly, anyway. There's no way I can repay you, Miguel. There's no way I can repay Jacques, Jeremy, Frank, or Mac. On top of that, there's never going to be a way I can repay Artie, when he went through hell in Stephan's lab only because he's my partner!

Try as he might, Jim couldn't stay awake now. The talk with Artie and Jacques left him exhausted.

How can I say I'm even a little bit well again? I can't manage a couple of hours sitting and discussing this tangle. I'm still confuddled six ways from Sunday. I still don't understand how I came to be thirty years old without knowing what a blind, empty-hearted shipwreck of a man I was!

Abruptly, while finally falling asleep, Jim remembered standing up from one of the gold settees in the varnish car, raising his hands in a gesture of confusion and grinning all across his face. "Where am I?" he'd asked Artie, feigning a relapse of amnesia. "Who are you? Wait, hold on, who am I?"

It was a grand joke at the time; a means of escaping a stultifying social obligation. Now it left the third question ringing in Jim's mind. Wait; hold on, who am I? Who is Jim West? Damned if I know!

If you don't know, Torry, a voice cold enough to freeze a prairie fire, answered, I do. I know you, my dearest boy, and better than anyone ever has, or ever shall. You understood that perfectly, years ago, Torry. You must understand it again, and immediately, now. You must accept it, you must welcome it. You must never deny the truth of the matter again!

wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww

Then these cowards sat back, waiting to garner the spoils of a coup d'etat. They were perfectly willing that hundreds of good young men should be tormented and killed to gain the power they sought. Those cowards, mon enfant, these evil, soulless men, caused all this turmoil, grief and pain. What it cost in human lives and human hearts, they cared nothing for.

Yes, so I thought. Your eyes give you pain even in this dimmed light.

WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

SCENE TWENTY-THREE

THE WANDERER

SAME DAY, NEXT NIGHT

This was the nightmare's oldest, cruelest voice, Lucien Beauvais' voice that rang in Jim's head more and more loudly these days, when he had no one and nothing to distract him. The Haitian-born Georgian used his voice as he did everything else to mesmerize and thereby control the world around him. It was a rich, cultured, powerful instrument that never lacked for a knife's edge or a twist of mockery.

Even when Beauvais dropped most of his masks and pretenses, and used the Port au Prince patois of his childhood, his voice was cold as winter fog off the Chesapeake. This voice was a weapon as subtle and deadly as any Jim West ever knew, a rapier tipped with incurable poison in some cases, a dagger of Damascus steel, glistening inside layers of ice nothing could melt at other times. This was the voice of his own madness and Beauvais', inextricably bound together, or so the Georgian would have it.

You know nothing about me except for the terrified, tormented tiny boy child you murdered, more than three decades ago! Jim answered the nightmare.

He was just then beginning to understand being separate from his momma, being a tiny person on his own two, chubby, clumsy little feet; and you tore him apart, Remy. You murdered that child; just as someone, you won't talk about anymore murdered a tiny boy called Remy, over seventy years ago. You won't let anyone speak her name, Remy, and I'm one of the handful of people still in the living world who understand why!

You will be silent unless commanded to speak! The nightmare voice ordered. You will be utterly obedient to us at long last, Torry. Or you will watch the consequences of your pathetic rebellion destroy the world you so fondly, foolishly cling to! Then you will wish to be blind again, without recourse!

Jim shuddered, pushing the nightmare back with all his strength. How many times had he faced just these threats from his tormentor by now? How many of his brothers had taken the brunt of Remy's dark promises in Jim's stead? Was the other voice of the nightmare, Liesl's whispering voice telling the truth now from her ghostly vantage?

Had brothers Jim never knew, even for a second, even as little as he knew the ones still here, given up their lives to preserve those who survived now? How many brothers had been born of one man's icy brutality and one tiny boy's determination to protect, to defend, to watch and teach survival to his invisible siblings? How much obedience and how much power had he given their murderer and tormentor, by keeping silent about Beauvais' transgressions?

Memories of his brothers' childhood torments at Beauvais' hands only came to Jim's consciousness in the past few months as they finally allowed and he finally insisted on these revelations. His own conscious memory of being abducted to New Orleans' French Quarter as frightened, angry twelve-year-old runaway had never left him, and never been voiced before now, W Company gave 'Oldest Torry' what they knew of that time and all the support he needed to accept it. His wartime encounter with Aynsley and Beauvais involved D and V Companies more than their brothers, it was whole in Jim's memory again now, sharp and angry and not a little proud of his part in stealing the young hostages from their captors.

Silent is something I will never be again where you're concerned, Remy dearest, Jim replied, knowing Courier, Youngster, and Smallest Torry were standing in line behind him, with the rest of their brothers behind them, to bolster the challenge that finally had to be made. Squaring his shoulders, lifting his chin, lifting his eyes, which in this dream as all others these days saw more clearly than ever before, Jim shook his head and smiled tautly at Beauvais. Silence cost me too much, for far too long. Silence nearly cost me everyone I give a flying damn about.

Maybe it cost me more than I know for certain, Remy dearest, what do you say to that? What do you say to the question that popped into my head just lately? The question, Remy, of how you know so

much about the fire that killed my mother and grandmother and baby brother. How do you know about that night, Remy? You never learned the story from me, Remy; not from my brothers or me.

You never learned it from Jaimey, Alix or my father, my grandmother or anyone else who was there that night. You learned it somehow, Remy, because you're the only one who could have shared it with Liesly. She had no other means of finding it out, and neither did Stephan, did he? Am I supposed to think you knew so much about that one terrible night because Jaimey or Alix told you? No, no, that never happened, Remy, because you hadn't talked to them in twenty some years by that time.

So, how did you know that for the first few days afterwards people thought wet hay in the stables burst into flames the way it can sometimes, or that a lantern fell into a stack of shiny, sweet new straw? How did you know what the first explanation of the fire that killed three people I loved and destroyed my grandmother's house was? Where and when did you hear that explanation, Remy? Where were you that week, in early July the year Meg and I turned six? Where were you that night, when what had been a birthday party for me and my twin turned into nightmares and pain and mourning for the rest of our lives?

Insolent boy, we are nearly done here. We will hear none of your fantastic fabrications! The nightmare's source answered. You have always had an excitable nature and a bizarre imagination, Torry. You are exercising both now, to no avail and no purpose. You weave phantasms and frauds out of nothing tangible whatever.

You are too much Jaimey's nephew, dearest boy; and far too much your mother's son as well! Suspicions, intrigues, preposterous notions, that's what they taught you to dwell in, Torry no wonder you became a spy! They were mere small minded, plebian, bourgeois farmers, anglers, hostlers, and woodcarvers! What could they ever understand about us, Torry? What could they know of the world we taught you to walk in as only one gentleperson can teach another? What could one do with such morosely unexceptional types but push them out of one's path? One's path to the Glorious Destiny that Awaits must be cleared of all such nuisances and debris, must it not?

Jim groaned, still dreaming, except this dream was much too lucid, far too real. He was dreaming a confrontation with Lucien Beauvais that had yet to happen in the waking world. He was rehearsing those scenes, as he knew full well the Georgian would perform them. An old wound near his heart ached as if torn open again, and the dreamer almost woke.

Jaimey Torrance had never guessed, as his second wife had what levels of terror and pain Remy Beauvais knew and shared with his 'dearest boys'. Jessamyn Eleanor Torrance West befriended Alix years before she came to Norfolk with her half brother. The sisters in law were closer than some siblings. What doubt could their nephew and son have that they shared some understanding of Alix' broken, brutalized, more than a little mad brother Remy?

You set the fire, Remy; Jim told his tormentor, half dreaming, and half screaming within. You pushed momma out of your Path... your Path to her third born son! You didn't announce your presence at the party. You weren't invited, even though Alix would have put a good face on it if you'd walked up to Jaimey and her. She's a genuine gentlewoman, Remy; and she loves you terribly. Only none of that mattered to you then, or matters now.

You set the fire in the attic, next to my grandfather's workroom. It was a warm summer night. The attic was stuffy. The things stored there were old, dried out papers, old clothes, and old books. If a hurricane lamp fell over and the oil spilled, how could anyone tell afterwards whether it was knocked over, thrown, or set burning while someone rummaged around for more tinder?

You murdered my little brother Cameron, Remy. He was three and a half. He was a towhead like me; but his hair was curly and his eyes were grey like Uncle Morgan's up in Philadelphia. He was as bright as a new penny, Remy, or as some folks say it, sharp as a whip. You murdered my grandfather Torrance, Remy. He was kindhearted and generous to a fault, and he raised the best Morabs, Welsh ponies and Morgan horses in most of Virginia. He came to Virginia at age fourteen, Remy, from County Mayo. He fought for the colonials in the Revolution and never regretted a moment or a drop of blood he lost doing it.

You murdered my mother, Remy. You knew her. You met her a dozen times before you started to keep away from Jaimey, Alix, and their family. You came to her parent's house and watched her with her children, her parents, her husband... You saw how she was lively, lovely, and fine as frogs' hair as we used to say. You saw how, as we also said, the Torrances of Norfolk County are fine lookin' people, well conformed with graceful lines and good temperaments. Only they haven't had a lick of sense amongst them since the Revolution, if then. That's why they needed Kiernans and Ashtons, Singers and Deveraux, Munroes and Morrisseys marrying into their lines, to bring in some real horse sense.

Then, I don't know, maybe my mother looked at you sideways, once or twice and you decided to murder her, to murder as many of us as you possibly could in one night, and destroy our home. Once you decide something, Remy, you do it. You always have, just as someone did to you. You set fire to the attic. You knew the backstairs were blocked, waiting to be repaired. You knew the smoke would suffocate anyone upstairs. You knew momma took Cam Little to tuck him and sit with him, because she'd done the same with Meg and me and with Robby when he was a baby and Alix was sick.

Then you came back, Remy, you went away for a while but you always came back and each time you did more damage. Time and again you came back to do more damage. Finally, you came to Stephan's attic, to his laboratory and the rooms there and handed your version of the nightmare that night already was, handed it off to Liesl and Stephan as the perfect ammunition against me.

Once you gave them that firepower, you thought I was broken in a thousand pieces, Remy dearest, Jim spat. You thought I was as helpless against you, again, as a tiny, cheery, unafraid, towheaded little boy called Torry once was. You didn't even know, you still don't know what's kept me strong enough to survive all this time. That's all right though; I didn't know either, until a very short while ago. You thought I was shattered, Remy dearest, when in fact I was restored, over and over and over again, each time stronger than one tiny boy alone could ever be.

Odious child! The nightmare voice exclaimed. You are not and never shall be on our level of Destined Magnificence and Ultimate Power! We once thought it possible, truly; but you long since proved yourself far too weak a vessel for our Greatness, far too frail an instrument for the Writing out of Our Legacy, and far too common a clay to mold in our Inimitable Image!

Perhaps we should have set our choice on the young Cameron, after all! Perhaps he would have endured the Requisite Testing of One's Heir Apparent. Perhaps he would have taken on the Role of our Courier and taken up the Charges against our Great Enemy as they should have been duly pursued and prosecuted long ago! We thought differently once, Torry, because we saw how Our Enemy of Enemies doted upon you as if you were his own child!

We are vastly disappointed in you, Torry. We are tragically disillusioned by your evident flaws and failings, your lack of a true gentleman's fine comprehension, your coarse attachments, your bizarre loyalties, and your evident weaknesses where ill-advised sentimentalities are concerned. Furthermore, we are, as you seem to have forgotten entirely, an officer of the court.

We cannot be impeached with baseless, insane accusations and fantastic frauds. We cannot be charged, indicted or prosecuted on the strength of infinitesimal shards of memory, or meaningless hypotheticals; much less on the dreamt-up, trumped-up imaginings and ravings of a man who should by all rights be committed to an asylum for the criminal insane. We shall quit your presence for the foreseeable future, dearest boy.

Nevertheless, despite your banal meanderings and worthless tantrums, we shall await your return to the fold and your obedient servitude as long as may be necessary. Remember that, Torry dearest; we shall await your return. Within due time, you shall find your plebian associates insufferable, your supposed allies disdainful, and your dreams of a Hero's Glorious Choice calling to you, once again. Then, you shall return to us, Torry dearest, or we shall most certainly return to rid your Destined Path of the menials, the swine, and the mongrels who overwhelm it now.

They already war amongst themselves as if your friendship were an auction prize. They hate one another, Torry, perhaps even more than they detest you and what you've become in the past few years. They are clods and fools who wouldn't have touched the hem of your trousers when I had you still under my care. These freaks, these churls, these government clerks, these so-called medical men, these immigrants, these foreign interlopers, and these filthy Hebes you insist on associating with Torry, are destroying all the promise left from your vastly promising youth.

They see you as a trophy to win, a medal to wear, a battle to win. They see you as an attractive thing to compete for, as if you were a marriageable young heiress at a ball! They see you as an object, Torry, not as a man. What is more, dearest boy, they despise your weakness, and now that it's been revealed, they despise you, likewise. They loathe you, Torry. They envy your former gifts and your once handsome face. They hate your quick wits and your finely conformed lines, in flesh and in blood.

They will abandon you, Torry, when the old madness returns to your veins and your heart.

Nevertheless, Torry, they will go on struggling amongst themselves until they rend you apart. When you realize the truth of our words and our warnings, dearest boy, you will hasten back to the world we can still make your own.

When hell freezes over and then thaws, Jim answered, feeling the cold of the dream to his core. We are done, Lucien Beauvais. "Do you hear me, Remy? Do you hear me now, Lucien Jeremiel Corentin de Villefort Beauvais, fils? We are once and for all, completely, completely done." Jim said aloud and shuddered as he heard Beauvais' icy laughter reaching out of the dream.

Shaking, but with rage this time, West stood up off his berth and imagined the Georgian standing between him and the door. On one deep breath, the agent balled and threw his right fist hard, as he had some twenty years ago, connecting with the older man's heavy gut and knocking him to the ground. The laughter stopped, the icy voice disappeared. The scene vanished. His own momentum took over and Jim fell forward, losing both balance and consciousness.

wwwwwwwwwwww

Was he awake again, feverish again, or having another, far less coherent dream? Shivering and sick to his core, the dreamer wasn't sure. He'd done something so egregious, he'd said something so far beyond the Pale that there was no going back. Did he want to go back; and if so, where, to what? No, no, no going back, of that much he was very sure.

He'd been helpless, mad, mute, and alone, losing a long time struggle with forces bound to render him limb from limb. He'd been fragmenting from one minute to the next as if his whole being were a crystal goblet flung at a fireplace. He'd been paralyzed, numb, and half dead because the living heart in him had been shattered beneath his ribs.

If this was another dream, it was turning stranger by the second now. Faces, places, things, times, sights and sounds and scents whirled past him as if on a madly speeding carousel. Harmony and conflict, peace and strife, companionship and enmity fought for suzerainty at every turn. Envy, fear, apathy, and pride destroyed the bonds between living hearts and minds like so many armies wrecking roads and throwing bridges down. Yet, loyalty and compassion, empathy and trust built them back again, a thousand, thousand times.

The process might never end, the dreamer guessed. He was already part of it. He had to take part in it consciously and completely, or lose the reality and the dream. Diffidence, indifference, and dissembling impassiveness were the wrecking crews he heard, saw and felt. Only daring, struggling, and candor could make repairs or build anew. One path was the one he'd walked far too long. The other plainly showed what his friends should and did expect of him.

With one vast effort now, sensing willing helpers at hand, the dreamer shifted paths and pulled the fragmenting world into himself. A living heart beat there once again. Momentum and sudden hope pushed air back into his lungs. Now he could laugh where only the nightmare laughed before. All the fragments he'd dreamt were him and he them, and nothing that lived could exist alone. Wake up and see the dream was partly here and real, partly past shadows, and so much more to come, the dreamer heard someone say. Wake up and see.

" I'm ... I'm supposed to sleep," Jim protested. "I'm supposed to sleep ... Doctor's... Doctor's orders... Can't, can't wake up, can't,"

"Jim, Jim, c'mon partner, you can, you can wake up," Artemus was saying, looming worriedly over his partner as Jim opened his eyes. "Do you feel sick again? Does your head still ache, it should."

"What?" Jim blinked and canted his head, which in fact ached like fire. "Artie, what happened?"

"Idiote!" Jacques answered from his left, surprising Jim. "You fell off the berth, into the bird's nest chairs and broke open your head most royally. Sit still, mon enfant. You've been nauseous half the night and most certainly have taken a concussion as well."

For the first time now, Jim noticed the cold compress drooping down over his eyes. His right temple was throbbing. His stomach felt hollowed out and queasy. He wasn't sitting at all, but lying back on his berth, propped up with a stack of pillows in all different sizes and shapes.

"Jacques is right, of course," Artie said. "You've been winking in and out on us for about seven hours now. Also, you have a goose egg on your noggin that's turning eight or nine wonderful shades of purple, chartreuse, and mauve. Anything else you'd like to know, James m'boy?"

"How're you?" Jim asked, managing three syllables to Artie's sixty or so.

"Damned near exhausted if you must know," Artie obligingly grumbled. "James, I realize you had something of a tiff with the good doctor; but couldn't you find an easier way to bring Miguel here?"

"I ... Artie, I thought you had a tiff with Miguel," Jim answered. "I wanted you to talk..."

"Instead you dived off that berth, and made a wreck of the furniture as if there was a brawl going on here," Artie complained. "Then you started mumbling and muttering all night about talking to me, and to Miguel. Why?"

"Is he coming?" Jim dodged, rather well he thought, all things considered.

"Within the hour," Artemus said. "I got Jacques back here as fast as I could and we had our hands full with you and your nightmares all night. Then when you started to make more sense, we sent Marietta to Isle d' Tresor, and he sent her back, saying he'll be here. So again, why did you want to talk to us, tonight, Jim?"

Jim opened his mouth and closed it again. Some elements of his dreams whirled through his mind; but too quickly to catch or recognize now.

"I don't know, Artie. Sorry, just don't know. It was... odd... there were all sorts of ... odd things, that's all; and I'm kind of dizzy, now." The agent shook his head and slipped back onto his pillows, unconscious again.

When Jim was aware of his surroundings, again Miguel was placing a cold, damp compress on his forehead.

"Good morrow, Sir Wanderer," the small doctor smiled.

"Wan...Wanderer?" Jim asked. "No, no, Miguel, I'm... just me, again, for now anyway. V Company's about ready to head for bivouac, though. We're fairly well tired out."

"Be that as it may, you've been wandering in your wits all night, I was told. Also, I've observed the same phenomenon most of the morning, now. However, I've concluded you did not suffer a concussion after all, on the basis of my observation that you seem able to recover consciousness without any stimulus applied. How d' you feel now, Torry?"

"Worn out," Jim said. "Miguel, when did you get here?"

"Not as soon as I should have, it seems to me. Never mind that, look at me, Torry. Why did you jump out of bed?" Miguel asked.

"I never liked bird's nest chairs?" Jim offered.

"No, try again," Miguel insisted.

"Well, I just... I ...had some odd dreams," Jim said. "One of them, in one of them I was throwing a good, solid right hook right into someone's solar plexus. They went down like a hollow tree, too."

"Very satisfactory, I'm sure," Miguel nodded. "Whom were you practicing fisticuffs with?"

Jim thoughtfully chewed his lip and shrugged. "It was just a dream, Miguel. It didn't make any sense. Dreams rarely do, right?"

"Wrong," de Cervantes frowned. "You know better than that by now, surely, my friend. Tell me about these dreams, now if you please, or even if you don't."

"You're a bully; but you know that, right?" Jim managed a tired half-grin.

"Naturally," Miguel agreed. "Stop dodging, please,"

"Artie's a bully, too, you know? You two should get along fine, these days." Jim stalled again.

"We've already entered an entirely new set of negotiations on just such delicate diplomatic points," Miguel chuckled. "The cease-fire we arranged in Baltimore with Thomas and Jacques' help however, still holds."

"That's always good news, when a cease fire stays intact. Miguel, one of the people ... maybe the main one I was throwing the right hook that Artie taught me at... was ... He was ...Remy Beauvais. I dreamt I knocked him flat on his back, the same exact way I did when I was thirteen years old."

'Huzzah!" Miguel laughed. "A bastard like that needs to be knocked flat on his dignity on a regular basis, I firmly believe. I take it when the blow was actually struck, the cobarde gave up his most egregious behaviors in your regard?"

"Yeah, yeah he did," Jim nodded and frowned. "Miguel, were you listening to what I said a minute ago? I said the man I knocked flat was Remy Beauvais. I said his name. I. said. his. name. I couldn't do that till now, not... for a very long time."

"Yes, you're quite right about that," Miguel nodded. "I suspect the effect within your imagination was much the same as the richly deserved blow you gave him years ago. Bravo, bien hecho, felicitaciones. Now, Torry, the rest of these dreams you had..."

"Didn't make a lick of sense," Jim replied, squinting and blinking at his friend. "Miguel,"

Now the small doctor grinned from ear to ear, as if the agent's frustration amused him this morning as much as it had in the past.

"Let me share with you a saying of the Zen Masters in Tokyo and Beijing I studied with years ago. They liked to say: Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. They meant to say..."

"Pick up your gun and your haversack, put your head down and soldier on," Jim suggested.

"Yes, something very much like that," Miguel agreed. "Who else do you want to take Mr. Gordon's well renowned right hook to, these days?"

"What?" Jim asked sitting up despite his headache. "Nobody! Everybody. Me, especially me."

"Lie back down at once, Sir Wanderer and answer my question properly," Miguel insisted, raising one graying eyebrow until Jim complied.

"Me, especially me." Jim repeated.

"Why?" Miguel prompted.

"I can't set one foot right. No, the devil with that, I can't set one toe right anymore! I'm disgusted with Jim West and so are all of you, I'm sure."

"Don't speak for me concerning my friends, Torry," Miguel answered. "I reserve that right to myself, thank you. What I will say at this point is that you are not allowing yourself much in the way of room to set your feet where and as and when you please.

Have you considered that it is now March, and what your circumstances were only six months, a year, or three years ago?"

"Well, let's see," Jim frowned again. "Three ago, I was blind. I was locked up for crazy, not to say I wasn't crazy then, because I was. As far as I knew, there was no Jim West, only a terrified, sick little blind boy called Torry. I didn't know who I was, much less where. I had no memories that weren't distortions and lies. I was sick all the time with bronchitis, malaria, and other fine types of fever, starvation, and the occasional bout of pneumonia. "Also there were people where I was locked up whose job seemed to be dragging me into one room or another and beating the tar out of me. They were dedicated to their work, I can tell you. By this time I shouldn't have as much as a pint of tar left in me, they did that so well and so often.

"There were other people there whose job seemed to be scaring the dickens out of me and all the other poor devils locked up there. Those fellows really liked their work, too. They..." Jim shuddered.

"I take your point, Miguel."

"Fine," Miguel answered, neither sounding nor intending to sound convinced. "So, you dove off

the bed to punch your oldest adversary in an uncomfortable physiological location. Good. What else happened in these dreams that you still don't want to talk about?"

"Well, I wasn't really talking to, and I wasn't really punching Remy, was I? I finally got Artie to sleep around that time, which isn't easy when he's trying to get me to sleep. Then I started to think, mostly about how stuck in one place I've been feeling; but also about how I've been cutting myself off again. I've been arguing and wrangling and grouching; only I said it was ... everyone else who's been ornery as a green-broke filly, lately. Then the dream started up, with everything in and around me falling to pieces, and pulling back together again, very differently. Also... Also..." Jim looked away and shrugged again, but said nothing more.

"Also," Miguel prodded.

"I'm not ... Everyone keeps saying to me, Miguel, how well I'm doing these days. I'm not, not at all, not a bit. I feel more and more crazy, not less. I'm touchy and nervy; and when I wake up from some of these dreams..." Jim lowered his voice and kept his eyes down. "...I'm scared. I'm still a scared little boy."

"What you've been through, what you've endured would scare anyone except a madman, Torry," Miguel replied. "That being the case, I don't think we can diagnose you as mad any longer, can we? What in particular scared you in these specific dreams?"

Jim sighed and offered his friend a weary smile. "You know, people used to tell me I was stubborn. Well, doctor, you've got me beat by a magnitude there."

Miguel nodded and smiled. "Certainly, Torry. Oh, perhaps one of the problems here is that I shouldn't be calling you Torry any longer. Is it?"

" It's fine, it's absolutely, absolutely fine," Jim insisted, as he adjusted the green visor over his eyes again. "What would you call me, 'Mr. West'? Or maybe 'you meddlesome, egregious, interfering Secret Service man', or...'my dear Adversary'?"

"That last is reserved for me, Jim," Artie announced, chuckling as he entered the cabin. "Also, you don't have the energy to be meddlesome these days. We'll have to build up your skills in that area again when you're better. We'll start you out spying around your small cousin's tree house."

"No grown folks allowed," Jim recited from the sign posted on said dwelling. "Except for one," he went on and shuddered as another, far worse memory rose like winter fog off the Chesapeake. Jim squeezed his eyes shut and shook all over, as if he were climbing out of that bay with a pack of hunting dogs and a load of geese.

"Never mind, never mind all that, Miguel, you have every right to call me Torry. I told you that name myself. What about this odd, new dream? I can't make heads or tails of it, can you?"

"I'm more interested in talking about your feeling of being a scared little boy," Miguel said. " As I just said, what you've been through would scare anyone but a madman, and a sociopathic one to boot; meaning one who has no capacity for empathy, compassion or understanding. Most emphatically, Torry that is not who you are. Go on with this notion, now please,"

"Take some of this broth, first, mon enfant," Jacques said, walking into the cabin with a cup of steaming, wonderful smelling liquid.

"Yes, Doctor," Jim said, following his orders with the usual grimace. Setting the cup down, the agent turned back to de Cervantes.

"Miguel," Jim said, then frowned, and shrugged. "You and Artie and Jacques, Jeremy, Jemmy and the rest of my medical team keep telling me I'm improving, I'm getting well,"

"We're right," Miguel, Artemus, and Jacques, chorused in their role as representatives of said team.

"I'm not so sure. I'm not; and maybe that's the problem. Maybe that's it, I don't know. I overreact all the time now. I get all worked up over ... nothing. I don't have the stamina for an all out argument or the nerve for a fight. I lost my edge somewhere in Aynsley's attic. Even the Ds aren't up for a skirmish these days, which I'm reliably informed, they always, always were.

"I lost myself and I know that was up in Aynsley's laboratory; and I know it was all a tangle of fears and lies, a trap I couldn't climb or run, jump or crawl out of. It's possible, just barely possible I woke up to some extent when Cour, Courier who says he'd rather be called Anthony ... because that was Dad's brother who died young."

"Courier, Youngster, and Smallest Torry tell me I pushed through and stopped what was supposed to happen that day, in the President's suite. I don't think that's accurate. I think it was far more the President's doing than mine. I think the patterning was all about being completely, completely destroyed, being fragmented forever, if we didn't carry it through. "

"And this dream, that found all the pieces woven back together?" Miguel asked. "What does that have to do with the rest, Young Sir Meanderer?"

"I have no idea, no idea at all," Jim admitted.

"Maybe I do," Artemus offered. "Jim, not just now, and not just yesterday, you've said you're feeling at a standstill. You've been talking about being caught somewhere between Torry Little and his brothers and a blind-beggar-fraud. I think the stumbling block here could be mostly anger."

"Anger?" Jim repeated. "No, no, Artie, I'm not angry with you, or you, Jacques or you, Miguel. Just, a lot of things ...worry me these days more than they ever did before...before three years ago. Quarreling seems to be one those worrying things. I guess I just don't have my nerve back; maybe I don't have the guts for a fight anymore. I don't know."

"Nonsense," the trio of colleagues answered, and then laughed.

"Wasn't part of the dream a fight, Torry? Artemus, you're right, Dear Adversary," Miguel said, grinning at the agent's look of surprise.

"Our young Sir Wanderer of Meanders hasn't moved one step past a wall of perfectly natural, only to be expected rage at what was done to him. We may have to find a rope ladder or jury-rig some steps to get him over this stone-capped redoubt. What building materials or methods do we have at hand?"

"There's always a sharp kick to the backside," Artie chuckled. "They used that in the Army to great effect, as I recall."

"The Volunteer Army," Jim chided. "There really was a difference, partner."

"Oh, yeah, sure there was," Artie grinned, delighted to hear Jim joking. "The Regular Army didn't have enough enlistees in April of '61 to man a march across the Long Bridge to Alexandria, much less Richmond, James m'boy. They had 16,000 effectives in the entire country at the beginning of the year.

"We digress; you're angry with us, Jim, of course you are. We've been controlling everything you did or didn't do for months; and that's counting the time since your memory began to come back. Lay here, sit there, eat this, sleep now, and wake up now... Have you ever in your life responded well to arbitrary orders?"

"Ummm... Artie," Jim answered. "I was Regular Army. I started preparing to go to West Point, to become an officer in the Regular Army when I was nine years old. That was the starting point, unless you count all the reading, studying, prodding, pushing, wheedling, promising, and arguing I did before that to go to those prep schools for West Point. I went to schools in Ohio, Louisiana, Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Virginia to prepare for West Point. Also, all that wheedling, promising, and pushing began when I was six. When I was six years old I decided I had to grow up to be a damn hero!"

"So, the answer's no," Artemus laughed and went on. "Partner, you've gone through hell and you're just now coming out the other side. Added to that, you haven't had the easy life some people might have thought you did, not by any stretch. We didn't go through that, not to the same extent at all. We didn't survive what you've survived. Why shouldn't you be at odds with people, which includes a whole lot of people who didn't have their life stolen from them that way?"

"I'm still alive, aren't I?" Jim demanded, his tone losing all its humor. "Go and tell the men Stephan killed during the War and afterwards looking for his Courier how hard I've had it, Artemus. Go on and tell them I'm the one who should be angry now.

"My grandmother West had a favorite saying whenever she heard one of us complaining. 'Some people would kick,' she'd say. 'If they had both legs cut off.' We understood what she meant by that. She meant, don't sit around yowling and grousing because you can't always have your way."

"You don't yowl," Artie said. "I have that on the best authority. So, go ahead and kick, I say."

"My head aches like fire," Jim scowled and turned away. "Maybe we should try trephination next. Drill some holes in this battered noggin of mine and let the evil humors out."

"Now there's an idea!" Miguel chortled. "One I might have come up with myself, some years back, and didn't."

"No," Artie said. "You were only going to cut a swath from Jim's right to his left temple a few years ago, or something of that sort."

"I was rather out of sorts, that day," Miguel said, shrugging. "Deuce, as you recall, kept trying to kill me. Triste was not to be trusted, either, despite all I did for her. Fortunately, nothing came of that plan, except I think the beginning of a beautiful friendship between Torry and my 'uncle from Munich'. Stop changing the subject, Torry. I brought something for your headache that Antoinette made for mine. It will make you sleep, so perhaps you'd prefer to talk with us awhile. You did want to speak with us, I was told."

"What the devil does it matter what I want?" Jim shouted, surprising everyone present, himself included. Then he reached into the pocket of the smoking jacket he wore and pulled out a worn sheet of paper.

"How many times have I already told you I don't know who I am any longer? I'm not sure there is a person name Jim West! Are you? Well here's the answer to that question, right? Here's the only written record of the Watch.

"Here's a coded list of names, in groups of four and then in groups of sixteen, set up in a reverse-alpha-numeric code I learned as a cadet at West Point. It was set that way because, I have to guess, no one in the Army or any other government department has used a code like this one in the field since the War with Mexico."

"Here they are, all of them, I think, maybe so, or maybe not. I've been having some odd dreams you see, where I begin to wonder how there could be so many of them. Only then I begin to wonder from the opposite direction, if there were some who don't exist any longer, anymore than Jim West does."

"Jim, you're only going to make that headache worse," Artie suggested.

"Worse things have happened to my head," Jim cracked. "This is what I wanted to talk about, right here," he said, holding the sheet of paper up.

" I got the idea, Miguel that you and Artie, Jacques and the Colonel, and I don't know who else by now discussed my brothers and myself while I was... out. "Now I want a turn. Now I want to know what you know about this sort of thing and what you know about my brothers that I don't."

"You want to know how they could exist without your realizing it, isn't that it, Torry?" Miguel asked in turn. "You want to know how a man who believed himself to be entirely whole, sound and sane, quick witted, and certainly quite intelligent could be absolutely unaware of the divisions in his own mind and spirit. The answer is, he couldn't, you couldn't. You knew from an early age that your life, your world had distinct regions and demarcations to it. You grew up in Pennsylvania, Maryland, North Carolina, and Virginia, with some time spent in Texas. The sectionalism of your boyhood and young manhood was a given for your generation and the four before it.

"You went to school, as you noted, in half a dozen states, north and south. You knew to your bones, Torry that the divisions in your world were in your spirit, too. They were felt all your life, by anyone with any heart in him at all. It was in the air and the water in those days, in the fire and the earth.

"On a more individual level, you had some level of understanding as regards your brothers, Torry, or you would have committed yourself to an asylum at some point in the last ten years or so. There existed an element that I have no better way of describing, which understood that you were not mad; that instead you were constantly adapting, changing, enduring, and surviving a long term ordeal that many, many minds and spirits would have been destroyed by, long ago."

Jim said nothing for a moment, and kept his gaze down so that the visor hid most of his face. Finally, to his surprise and his friends' he shrugged.

"So it's ... they...we're survival adaptive, as Mr. Darwin would say?"

"Very much so," Miguel agreed. "Is there anything else you'd like to know?"

Jim sighed and nodded. "If I don't have a concussion after all," he said in a somber tone. "I'd like to know where Artie's hiding the very old pale Martell he found in New Orleans, so I can have a dram."

Now all four men laughed, even though Artie groaned and rolled his eyes with a long-suffering affect. "I get it. I see. I'll never be lonely again, as long as I have some of this brandy stashed away."

"Bien sur," Jacques, Jim, and Miguel replied, laughing again.

When all four men held snifters and relaxed again, Jim turned towards the Montrealer.

"All right, Jacques now it's your turn, mon docteur ami," Jim said.

"Uh-oh," Jacques replied, in a fine impersonation of Artemus' best innocent-tone. "What'd I do now?"

"You helped Artie get over the redoubt Stephan built for him, for one. You showed him just how impossible it was for him to ever harm me. Also, you got in Courier's face when and as needed, when Artie wasn't there to do it himself. Also, you took care of Miguel when neither the Ls, the Ws, nor Ani could. Mille fois merci."

"De rien," Jacques grinned.

"I don't think so; but now for you, Miguel," Jim said turning to the small doctor.

"I'm being called on the carpet, I see," de Cervantes replied.

"In a way, yes, yes, you are," Jim agreed. "You once swore in a packed courthouse that you'd repay me for the intolerable debt of your life, when no one else could. So you have. We're even on that score. Only you didn't swear to restore my sanity, my genuine past, or my sight. I'll be back here, back in the clinic for more surgery in a few weeks or a couple of months; and the debt, my debt to you keeps going up from there.

"What does sanity go for on the open market these days, Miguel? Don't answer that. What does a man's sight and thereby his livelihood get bid, when no one else could have dreamt up or taught the means to give it back? You stayed in hell with a blind, mad child, Miguel. You risked your life for sworn enemy. Now, look at your hands, Miguel!"

Miguel, Jim, Artie, and Jacques all could see that the small doctor's hands were reddened, their joints swollen, their fingers painfully crooked inward now. Two Maryland winters had done that.

"Miguel, if your hands are like this, how bad are your legs; how much pain are you having in your spine? Why, Miguel? I can't believe you went through all that just to drag the word thanks out of me."

"Why then?" Miguel asked in turn, hiding a smile at his patient and friend's unusually serious tone. "You don't think, no, sure you don't think I've abruptly become an altruist, a charitable sponsor of blind, mad children everywhere. You don't believe I'm any less the bitter little madman I was when we first met, do you? Do I look more human to you now? Your eyes still aren't at your best, you know. Don't make of me something or someone I'm not."

"Then, why?" Jim asked as quietly as he'd been loud a moment before.

"To begin with, it was an insufferable debt I had to repay," Miguel answered. "Which in my culture, my grandmother's culture is a matter of honor, a matter of pride. Beyond that, I have to admit being glad I was right, that I could save your life, that I could teach Jacques and the others to restore your sight. One never knows as a scientist what a theory or a technique will end up effecting in the so-called real world.

"And there is more to it, Torry, just as you suspect. There's nothing wrong with that intellect of yours, my friend. From this point on you know and you will remember in painful detail what it is to be helpless, hopeless child in a world ruled by giants. Now you know that your identity as a man, your sanity, your sense, even your humanity have nothing to do with your strength, your health, or your height. Now you understand as well that my mind, my gifts, my humanity, and my skills have nothing to do with my crippling, my so- called madness or my size."

Jim only nodded, and looked away again. "Also, there's more?" He finally asked.

"Also there's a bit more," Miguel agreed. "I don't want apologies and I don't want thanks, anymore than you do when you help someone in need of help. I want still what I wanted all my life: Acknowledgement, respect, and a scrap of understanding, perhaps, now and then. None of these things are any less than one man deserves from other men. None of these things are more or less than you all were raised to expect as your portion. Well, if it's your portion, gentilhommes, it must also be mine.

"However, Artemus, in a quite significant, terribly sad way experienced the lack of those things in the new world his parents brought him to. Jacques drove himself as a boy and a man to earn the respect of Canadien and American medical men, which as Huguenot his family did not always receive. You, Torry I once would have said that you missed that sort of education in how the world works. I was wrong. Clearly, our adversary in all this was and is a horrendous snob. I look forward to the time when we can teach him what we've all had to learn."

"Remy Beauvais doesn't take to schooling very well," Jim muttered. "Also, he is and he always was even more broken than me. Alix knows what his childhood was like; she's the one who told me. It's something Remy either won't accept or can't remember, himself."

"James, for the love of G-d!" Artie exclaimed. "That fatherless son doesn't deserve one solitary second of understanding from you, or anyone else!"

Jim sighed again as his partner began to pace the room, waving his arms and darkly muttering oaths. "Artie, hold on. Artie, hold up a minute, will you? Artemus, listen up a minute, all right?"

Taking in Jim's tone of voice, Artie stopped on a dime and turned. "Uh-oh," the former actor said. "What'd I do now? Oh, it's my ancestor's temper slipping out again, right. They were..."

"At the battle of Vienna, we know," all of his colleagues answered. "They were Hussars, we know. They had rotten tempers, we know."

"Oh, well if you already know...What did you want to tell me I did, Jim?" Artie asked.

"You brought my Dad to that rotten asylum for me," Jim said. "You never had to do that, you know. Anyway, I know you didn't have to take that risk. Well, I'm sorry, Artemus, I've been treating you like do did something terribly wrong, when you did the best thing for Torry, for the Ls that you could possibly have done."

"I don't know that there was any choice at the time, James," Artie noted.

"Certainly there was, Jacques could have impersonated my father's voice for me. Ori Hoynes or Terry Hawks, or Jesse Godsey could each have hauled me out of there, no matter what I said or did. Jeremy or Jacques, Miguel or Jemmy Singer could have dosed me to get the same thing done.

Also, there was damned good chance someone among the Companies would mistake you for the Austrian, as they call Stephan. No, you had a choice, and the Ls love you for the one you made, Temus-Poppa."

"Temus..." Artie echoed. "Well, that's... Jim, wait, listen to me. I haven't been an exemplary friend through all this, maybe you haven't heard. There was all that nonsense about arguing with Jacques and Frank and Mac. There was all that time I wasted being angry with Miguel, too. There was..."

"Artemus," Jim interrupted his friend in a slightly martial tone.

"Oh, umm...what?" Artie asked, noting the tone.

"Stop," Jim smiled. "Shimon Lehrer was targeted, abducted, and murdered because he became your friend, because you're my friend. He'd still be alive today with Zara and their kids if that weren't so. I wasn't kidding the other day when I said I want to train down to August and do whatever I can for her, and for them. I want to do whatever I can do for you about that, too. I owe you. I owe you one helluva lot. That means you get to tell me what you need me to do, about all that, all right?"

Artie smiled back, a bit tiredly. "Sure, Jim, sure. There is just one the one little, infinitesimal thing..."

"I should never open a bottle of champagne again when you and Lil are in the room?" Jim grinned.

"A little less infinitesimal than that, I guess, but yeah. James, could you just think about not disappearing on us again? Or at least, maybe could you only disappear once every five or ten years?" Artie grinned and winked at his friend. "It's getting harder and harder, these days, you know, trying to find the famous disappearing West."

"He means infamous," Jim chuckled. "He really does. So, I guess I can try... not vanishing, I mean. Now, Miguel, what can I do for you?"

"For me, Torry? Oh, nothing really, nothing very much," Miguel started to chuckle but then he pulled down a more somber expression for a minute and a half.

"Of course a bit of government funding would be more than acceptable, especially as I have a growing family to support. That would be fine, along with an assistant or two in the surgical practice, and in my laboratory work, Artemus would be an excellent choice for that; and Richmond of course has an excellent array of theatrical venues he can take on. Antoinette quite often notes that I don't spend enough time with her and Micah.

"Now you, Torry, will be an invaluable aid in a sort of liaison role between Washington and me. You know the people in positions of power and the people who hold the reins and the purse strings as well. You're highly thought of and likely to be much sought after as you recover your health at Congressional funding committees and embassy balls, those being the places where real power resides.

"Goodness knows my work can't go on indefinitely without some means of replacing the estates stolen from my grandmother decades ago. Aside from that, I was thinking of offering Jacques a full partnership in my medical practice here. He's a much better physician than an agent, you know. Also he can keep you company, Torry, when you're here recuperating and so forth. Yes, I think those are fine ideas, to start."

"To start?" Jim, Artie, and Jacques exclaimed before they started to laugh.

Miguel ignored them and went on sorting out their respective futures. The trio of agents tried and failed to put up an outraged façade. Miguel went on stolidly serious while expounding on his latest theories and his revised, if older plans. Those plans expanded geometrically as he continued talking and sipping the Martell. Eventually, and peacefully of course, his authority would extend to ruling the nation and most of the world. Fatherhood, Miguel insisted had made a confirmed, enthusiastic pacifist of him, almost a Quaker...

ANOTHER BEGINNING.

TNOTBB,

By Ronni Caitlin Gabrielle Sacksteder Baer

CAST OF THE NIGHT OF THE BLIND BEGGAR:

MICHAEL DUNN

AS MIGUEL/MIGUELITO DE CERVANTES EL OLVIDADO Y SIN AMOR/LOVELESS

ROBERT CONRAD

AS KIERY-LITTLE/COURIER/JAMES KIERNAN TORRANCE WEST,

ROSS MARTIN

AS ARTEMUS AURELIUS MARCUS GORDON

WILLIAM SCHALLERT

AS FRANCIS MARION 'FRANK' HARPER

DOUGLAS HENDERSON

AS JAMES RICHMOND,

CHARLES AIDMAN

AS JEREMY TOBIAS PIKE

WILLIAM SHATNER

AS JACQUES ETIENNE MERLION D'EGLISIER

TIM MATHESON

AS SEAN ORIEL HOYNES

MARTIN SHEEN

AS

ULYSSES SIMPSON GRANT

AND

JOHN SPENCER

AS THOMAS LEO MACQUILLAN

DANA ANDREWS

AS

LUCIEN JEREMIEL CORENTIN 'REMY' BEAUVAIS

JAMES MASON

AS

STEFAN JOHANNES SEBAASTIAN AINSLEY

ALYSON HANNIGAN

AS

MARGUERITE ELISE 'LIESL' BRANOCH

SUSAN HASKELL

AS

LIESL'S COMPANION AND

SOMETIME DOPPLEGANGER

CECILY ARIADNE BRECKINRIDGE

OLIVIA DE HAVILAND

AS

ALEXANDRINE MICHEALA GENEVIEVE BEAUVAIS PARRY TORRANCE

JAIMEY TORRANCE' SECOND WIFE, JIM'S AUNT BY MARRIAGE AND REMY BEAUVAIS'S HALF SISTER

ARTHUR KENNEDY

AS

JAMES KIERNAN 'JAIMEY' TORRANCE

JIM'S MATERNAL UNCLE, NAMESAKE, AND GODFATHER

GERALDINE FITZGERALD

AS

JESSAMYN ELEANORA

'Jessellyn' or 'Elly' TORRANCE WEST

Named for a Quaker friend of her mother's.

JIM'S MOTHER

JAMES MASON

AS

JIM'S FATHER

STEPHEN DANIEL WEST

STEFFAN DENIOL MIHANGEL WEST

PAUL LUKAS

AS

MORGAN RHYSIART GLYNDWR WEST

JIM'S PATERNAL UNCLE

KATHERINE HEPBURN

AS

CORNEILE 'MAE' MAELYS REGNIER WEST

JIM'S AUNT BY MARRIAGE

**JIM'S SISTERS:**

MADLYN RHUE

AS

RAICHEAL SINEAD TOIREASA 'RAE' WEST COOPER

EILEEN DAVIDSON

AS

MEREDYDD ELSPETH OLWEN 'MERI' WEST TEMPLE

JULIANA MARGULIES

AS

GUINEVERE RHOSYN OLWEN 'MEG' WEST HARPER, JIM's TWIN

JULIE PINSON

AS

ALEXANDRINE MICHAELA GENEVIEVE 'ALIX' WEST TRAHERNE

SARAH JOY BROWN

AS

BRIGID CIARA TEAGAN 'BREE' WEST SINGER

JENN LILLEY

AS

MAIRENN EMER 'EMMY' OR 'EMM' AISLING WEST LAWRENCE

**JIM'S FIRST COUSINS:**

ALIX AND JAIMEY'S CHILDREN:

SUSAN DEY

AS

SIOBHAN EIREANN 'JEANNY' TORRANCE MARCH,

JOSEPH FIENNES

AS

POL AINDRIU PAUL ANDREW TORRANCE

JENSEN ACKLES

AS

ROBEARD 'ROBBY' LORCCAN TORRANCE

JULIE GONZALO

AS

JESSAMYN ISIBEAL TORRANCE

ABBIE CORNISH

AS

DONATIENNE LEONIE TORRANCE

MORGAN AND MAE WEST'S CHILDREN:

HARRISON FORD

AS

OWEN GLYNDWR WEST

DANIEL DAY LEWIS

AS

RHYS ALUN WEST

JACLYN SMITH

AS

ANGHARAD NERYS ELSPETH WEST

EMMA STONE

AS

MORWENNA SEREN GWYNETH WEST

JOSH HENDERSON

AS

COURIER/ANTHONY

CONNOR KALOPSIS

AS

YOUNGSTER

EVAN AND LUKE KRUNTCHEV

AS

TORRY LITTLE/SMALLEST TORRY

**WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW**


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